Pure Poison
by Random Phantom
Summary: Bodie & Doyle investigate several death involving a mysterious poison that kills a victim slowly over several days. Unaware they are being stalked throughout the investigation, it becomes a race against time to find the killers and a cure...
1. Chapter 1

Miss Kerry-Anne Smith smiled quietly to herself as she hopped cheerfully onto the midday bus into town. Despite the cool October morning, she wore a pretty floral patterned dress which she had shortened herself to an almost-but-not-quite indecent mini-skirt. Her long blonde hair hung to just below her shoulders; not in a fashionable cut, as she did not have the money to pay for expensive hairdressing, but it was clean and shone in the noon-day sun. She dropped pennies into the driver's coin tray and took a ticket, before seating herself midway down the bus. She peered out of the window, and smiled again, looking not at the busy pedestrians out on the street, but at her own faint reflection in the glass. Her make-up, at least, was perfect. She was nearly 18 years old, and was on her way to meet Mike Reed for their third official date. Mike was going to buy her lunch, take her to the cinema, and then they would go out to a disco. Lost in a fantasy world as to whether or not she should allow him to kiss her after he had walked her home, she did not notice as a man stepped onto the bus and slowly approached.

"Is this seat taken?"

Startled, Kerry-Anne glanced up quickly. A man stood there, smiling slightly. She appraised him quickly. He spoke with the faintest trace of an accent, one she could not place. He wore plain denim jeans, white trainers, a white tee-shirt and a faded black leather jacket. His face was narrow, but handsome; well tanned, with dark brown eyes. He smiled again at her scrutiny, and she felt herself blush slightly.

"No, of course," she stuttered, quickly.

She made a show of moving her long, stocking-clad legs to give him more room. The hemline of her skirt moved up a bit and she made no move to re-adjust it. Okay, so at the third date she and Mike were getting close, but still, she knew Mike through her job at the library and a bit of flirting practice never hurt anyone. She saw the man sweep an appreciative glance and she almost giggled, but quashed the girlish impulse quickly. At nearly 18, she considered herself too mature for such things.

"Thanks," the man said, taking the seat.

He swung a back-pack from his shoulder, and dropped into the seat. Kerry-Anne caught the faintest smell of leather from his jacket, and this time could not stifle a smile and the quickest of glances from the corner of her eye.

"Are you going far?" she asked, politely, glancing up at him with a slight smile.

"Not really," he smiled back, "only a couple of stops. Where are you headed?"

"Oh… just into town," she replied, breezily, "I'm meeting – a friend."

"Your boyfriend?" the man asked.

"Just a guy I know from work," she replied, dismissively, flicking her hair over her shoulder in what she hoped looked like an unconscious gesture, "my name's Kerry-Anne. My friends call me Kay."

"I'm Jack," the man responded, flashing that fantastic smile again, and reaching into his pocket, "It's nice to meet you, Kay. Would you like a chocolate? It's Belgian. Expensive."

"Oh, thank you," Kerry-Anne reached for one of the treats, and popped it into her mouth, her pretty lips biting down appreciatively as she closed her eyes to savour the taste.

In doing so, Kerry-Anne did not notice that the man quietly folded the paper bag closed again and drop it into his pocket, choosing not to sample one of the chocolates himself.

"Mm," Kerry-Anne murmured, appreciatively, "that was delicious, thank you."

She opened her eyes and favoured 'Jack' with a dazzling smile, only slightly marred by the trace of chocolate on her lip. He smiled back, and Kerry-Anne was so flattered by the attention that she did not even notice the slight hint of a predatory movement in the way he turned to look at her. She felt her heart rate speed up and wondered if this was what lust was. Mike had never brought her chocolates… well, not yet, anyway. She hadn't had much of a chance to tell him which ones she liked.

"Where do you get such nice chocolates?" she enquired, cocking her head to one side, privately wondering if Mike, as a full-time librarian, could afford to buy such luxuries where she could not on a part-time clerk's wages.

"I import them," Jack replied, enigmatically, "I plan to set up shop here in London."

"It was a delightful chocolate," Kerry-Anne purred, wondering if he would deign to offer another, "If I give you my telephone number, will you tell me when you open your shop? I would like to sample…more."

She raised her eyes to meet his dark gaze suggestively. He smiled again, and patted her hand.

"Of course," he replied, simply.

"It's a private number," she said, lowering her voice conspiratorially, "listen carefully…"

Playing along, Jack leaned in closer, and allowed her to whisper the telephone number into his ear. Her breath was warm on his cheek and he smiled to himself, as she turned away.

"Did you get that?" she smiled, glancing at him sideways in a way that she probably thought of as being coquettish, if she even understood the word.

He smiled back, repeated the number to her in a whisper. Kerry-Anne turned towards the window, and pouted suddenly. Her stop was rapidly approaching, and she had just begun to really enjoy herself.

_Any minute now, _she thought to herself, _he'll offer me another chocolate._

However, she was disappointed, as she reached up to press the bell and the bus slowly came to a halt.

"My stop," she said, somewhat unnecessarily, "Call me…?"

Jack simply smiled in reply.

Kerry-Anne stepped off the bus, feeling a flush working its way up her cheeks. She wondered if she should have cut the neckline of her dress a little lower… watching as the bus pulled away, she thought she saw Jack raise his hand in a wave to her. She waved back, a little hesitantly. She did not notice the man leaning against the lamppost behind her raise his hand slightly, acknowledging the gesture. He rolled up his newspaper and dropped it into the nearest bin.

Kerry-Anne glanced around herself, feeling a little flustered, before she set off on a steady walk to her rendezvous with Mike. Somehow, she was a little less enamoured about the whole meeting. She certainly had no regard for the small, pale man who wove his way through the crows, following a discreet distance behind her. Tottering slightly in the high heels she was not used to wearing, Kerry-Anne walked on regardless.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was just starting to get dark outside. The sun set slowly, sinking lazily behind the large warehouses clustered along the banks of the river Thames. Golden strobes of light reflected from broken windows and the choppy surface of the water, stirred up by a brisk evening breeze that heralded the decline of summer into autumn. It was late September, and the chill in the air made George Cowley's gammy leg ache slightly. The river had gone from a murky green to gold and blood-red in the dying light, and Cowley stood there, allowing the breeze to ruffle his hair. Anyone observing may have been forgiven for thinking that Cowley was miles away, lost in a world of his own thoughts. Those who knew the chief of CI5 knew better; every sense was alert and the hand that gripped the railing before him did so with a strength and surety of a man secure in his own position of responsibility. He did not need to turn at the screech of tyres behind him, which announced the arrival of a certain Ford Capri. The doors opened and then slammed shut again, before two sets of footsteps approached him slowly and stood at a respectful distance behind him.

"What took you so long?" he said, gruffly.

"Well, there was this bird, see…"

"Save it, Bodie," Cowley snapped back, turning to face the two.

He saw what he expected to. Bodie, the ex-soldier, stood with a slight grin on his handsome features that so many girls found so irresistible. He wore black suit trousers, dinner jacket, shirt and tie with incongruous black trainers. His blue eyes sparkled dangerously in the fading light, able to hint at mirth and malice at almost the same time. Doyle, the other half of the terrible two, stood slightly behind his partner. His unruly hair was a plaything of the breeze but his green-eyed gaze was deadly serious. His boyish good looks brought him as much luck with the ladies as Bodie's dark charms. He was wearing faded jeans, while trainers, and a white tee-shirt beneath his unbuttoned chequered shirt, over which was a denim jacket. Cowley's gaze flicked between the two for barely a millisecond before he spoke.

"We've got another one," he said, somewhat unnecessarily, "You'll need these."

He handed his two top agents a surgical face mask each and a pair of latex gloves. Both of the agents knew what to expect, as they put on the odd apparel without question. Cowley stepped towards them, and the two stepped neatly to either side to allow him to pass by, before falling into grim step behind their boss, as he lead the way into the derelict warehouse.

Bodie and Doyle were trained to notice everything. Still, the scene took some taking in. The warehouse was old, probably scheduled for demolition, and half-way to collapse from the looks of it. The three CI5 men strode past the 'Danger – Keep Out' signs without as much as an acknowledging glance.

Inside, the warehouse was dark and dank. The floor was thick with sludge that would probably have been dust if the roof had not leaked so badly. The place probably got saturated every time it rained, but with nowhere for the water to drain away it merely congealed with the dirt on the floor. The three men walked on regardless, their footsteps squelching slightly. Only Bodie, in his immaculate suit, creased the slightest of frowns at the thought of yet another trip to the dry-cleaners. Somewhere in the darkness, the dripping of water could be heard. The floor was too wet and slimy to retain any decent footprints. Towards the back of the warehouse, two large, white screens fenced off one corner. Cowley led the way as he stepped around the screens and stopped to survey the scene within.

A white-suited forensic examiner glanced up, his overalls stained grey from the mud. He registered their presence with barely a nod, before he turned back to his work. Intrigued, both Bodie and Doyle leaned in for a closer look. The medical examiner frowned behind his white mask and gestured for them to keep their distance. He was steadfastly ignored.

"Is this the same as the others?" Bodie asked, glancing back at Cowley, then at the medical examiner.

Around them, uniformed cops stood as far back as they could, looking oddly faceless in the surgical masks they all wore. On the floor, the body of a young girl was twisted into a grotesque parody of a centre-page model in a girly magazine. Her hands and legs were tied down with thick, frayed rope to old iron loops in the floor, which had obviously been there for as long as the warehouse. Bodie's eyes flicked around quickly, and spotted a rotting coil of rope nearby. A tool of convenience – whoever had tied the girl up had used materials to hand. They had probably scouted the area out for use before… before what? He turned back to the scene before him. Next to the girl was a young, dark-haired man, similarly tied, his face a frozen mask of death-agony.

"She's pretty," Bodie commented.

"Pretty young," Doyle remarked in response.

The girl was indeed young. Her eyes, once blue, had clouded over white in death, and stared fixedly, half lidded, at nothing. Her delicate lips wore the faintest traces of red lipstick, slightly garish, and a stark contrast to the blue tinge of her skin. Hair, once golden, was grey and slick with the dirt of the warehouse floor. Her dress was so coated in the rank muck it was hard to determine what colour the dress had originally been when it and its wearer had no doubt turned a few heads when walking down the high street. The examiner's gloved fingers touched her pale flesh, which had a waxy sheen in the harsh light of the spotlights set up to light the darkening interior of the warehouse. The white screens served the dual purpose of reflecting the light and shielding the body from any passing, prying eyes – however unlikely that was, given the massive police presence converged on the dockside.

"Well?" Cowley demanded, at last, his voice slightly muffled by the mask he wore, "Is it the same as the others?"

"Hard to tell," The doctor replied, "I'll need to conduct a post-mortem on both of them."

He turned, almost casually, to the young man. He wore tan trousers and once-polished black shoes, all heavily mud-stained. His blue shirt was open to the sternum, and the dark hairs on his chest stood out against the mottled blue and white skin. There was a gold chain around his neck, and his mouth was half-open in a silent cry. His hands, as were the girl's, were covered with tiny, blister-like lesions.

"Come on, doctor," Cowley pressed him, the northern burr in his voice deepening as his patience thinned, "out with it. Is it the same as the others?"

The doctor sighed, and stood up slowly. He glanced at each of the three agents, meeting hard stares in return. They were tough men, and the doctor crumbled quickly under the scrutiny.

"It looks that way," he admitted, "they died of an unknown poison, characterised by the tiny lesions on the backs of the hands. They were restrained, deliberately poisoned, and left to die, probably for quite some time – possibly over two or three days."

Doyle took a step forward, peering at the two tragic young figures before them. The girl could not be more than 19 years old. The man was somewhat older; mid-twenties, perhaps. Both of their features were so obscured by mud it was hard to make them out clearly. Doyle frowned, and moved in closer.

"These two make the fifth and sixth victims in as many weeks," Bodie growled, "and we still don't know anything about why they were killed."

Bodie flicked his brooding gaze from the two corpses to his partner. Doyle's face was set in a slight frown of concentration, and Bodie knew instinctively that his partner was onto something. He waited for a beat or two, and then shifted slightly.

"Doyle?"

The tousle-headed agent did not look up, and instead moved in closer, despite the doctor's mumble of incoherent protest, quickly silenced by a glower from the commanding figure of Cowley.

"I know him," Doyle stated, at length, "Yeah… his name's Reed. Mike Reed. He works at a library in the suburbs."

"I could have told you that," the doctor snapped, irritably, "we found his wallet. The girl's name is Kerry-Anne Smith. She's 17, he's 21."

"He was a nice guy," Doyle said, vaguely, as if he had not heard the doctor speak, "did loads of research for me on a case about the illegal import of exotic pets when I was with the Met. He helped us track down where the smugglers were bringing in all these bizarre lizards and parrots."

"Could this be relevant to the case?" Bodie asked, slightly confused as to what a lizard could have to do with murder.

"I doubt it," Cowley replied, "none of the other victims had a link to the force in any way – as far as we know. It could be a lead, though – go through the background checks again and see if any of the other victims acted as advisors or informers on police cases. Doctor, I want a full medical report on my desk by morning."

"But it's nearly the end of my shift…"

"By morning, doctor," Cowley's tone brooked no argument.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Unseen, high above the CI5 agents, a young man lay stretched out on the roof of an old factory, watching the scene below through the long lens of a powerful camera. He wore plain denim jeans and a black leather jacket over a plain white tee-shirt. Dark haired and muscular, 'Jack' had been a good name for him, although his friends knew him better as Karl. He quickly snapped photographs of the scene below him, paying particular attention to the three men grouped around a silvery-grey Ford Capri. Karl knew these men were not regular police, but he would need to get in touch with some of his contacts before he could fully identify them to his employers. Finishing off the film with a few more photographs for good measure, he placed the camera carefully into his rucksack. Turning away from the ledge of the roof and concealed by the encroaching night, he strode confidently away from the roof. His employers would be most pleased with the results of their latest experiments…


	2. Chapter 2

It was a long night of drinking strong coffee for Bodie and Doyle as they trawled through records and files all night in a room at the dingy CI5 offices. Bodie sprawled on an over-stuffed couch, dozing with an open file over his face, blocking out the harsh light from the desk lamp. Doyle poured over a file, only half-seeing the photographs in front of him. Each one was a twisted image of what had once been a human being; the cleaned up pathology shots of each of the six victims that had racked up over the last six weeks. Mentally, he ran through them all, a litany that was beginning to haunt every cop and every agent in London, as they tried to hide the details from the ever-hungry press.

Victim number one: Vincent Granger, a medical student who had been well on his way to dropping out of college with poor grades, lousy attendance records and a number of informal reprimands for possession of various drugs. Found dead after no more than a day, tied to a rusty old bed in the cellar of a house set for demolition, discovered by a surveyor assessing the place for the building of a deluxe hotel. Cause of death: an unknown poison, apparently deliberately administered in tablet form, possibly under the pretext of promising some weird trip.

Victim number two: Martha Blake, an elderly widow, discovered dead in her own home by the police after a concerned neighbour called after not having seen her for several days. She had been dead for some time, a victim of the same strange poison that had killed young Granger. The poison behaved like no other; Martha Blake had been injected with an unknown substance that appeared to have induced flu-like symptoms, culminating in her death after about thirty-six hours. She had died the quickest of the six victims.

Victim number three: Harriet Farrows, a middle-aged woman with a husband and three children. She had come home from work one day complaining of a headache and had gone to bed early. Woken up the next day slightly feverish, and told her husband that she would go to see a doctor. Left the house and never came back; reported missing later the same day. Found nearly a week later after a jogger found the body in waste ground not far from an industrial site. Clearly a body dump, the corpse showed signs of restraint, the same small blisters on the backs of her hands that marked her out as a victim of poisoning. There had been no indication of how the poison had been administered. Harriet Farrows had been dead for three days before her discovery. It had apparently taken three days for her to die, and her death had sparked the involvement of CI5 as Whitehall began to panic.

Victim number four: Timothy Wise. Mr Wise was – had been – a respected shopkeeper, who ran a newsagents. Of African origin, he had adopted the name 'Timothy Wise' because he liked the sound of the name and it was easier for his customers to pronounce than his given name of Nthembako. Timothy had disappeared one day after going out to meet some friends for a card game, and appeared four days later face down in a lake. This had caused a massive panic, until it was apparent that the water was not infected by whatever poison had killed Timothy Wise in just less than three days. He bore the marks of a beating, so had not gone quietly.

Victim numbers five and six: The recently discovered Mike Reed and Kerry-Anne Smith. Young, courting couple, reported missing by Kerry's hysterical mother, accusing Mike Reed of seducing and abducting her naïve daughter. Found dead in the warehouse three days later, tied down and very much a mystery as to how they had come to be there, with their bodies ravaged by an unknown poison.

Well, not too much of a mystery. Ray Doyle rubbed his tired eyes and glanced down at the notepad before him. He had spent some time flexing his policeman's training and tracking the last known movements of the last two victims. Kerry-Anne had taken the bus into town. She had met Mike at the cinema, where the ticket booth attendant recalled them leaving before the end of the movie, Kerry-Anne moaning about a headache; Mike chivalrously offering to pay for a taxi home. Both had climbed into a taxi that had been conveniently parked on the street corner, and had disappeared – literally – into the night. The ticket booth attendant, her attention span not that extensive at the best of times, had been unable to recall anything useful about the cab. A police report found a similar vehicle burnt out and abandoned later that same night, having been reported stolen two days previously by an irate cab driver who had been car-jacked. Three men, non-descript black clothes and ski-masks, had hauled him out of the taxi and driven it away. Doyle sighed. The whole thing smacked, terrifyingly, of extensive planning despite the apparent randomness of the selected targets. There was no link between any of the victims, who came from all walks of life. There seemed no motive… no reason … no logic to the spate of killings, which had only been identified as murders from the unnatural appearances of the corpses, all of whom had shown clear signs of restraint. Doyle's instinct told him that the answer was staring him in the face, but his tired brain refused to co-operate. He tried to take a sip of coffee, but the mug was empty.

"Allow me, sunshine."

Doyle did not react as Bodie reached down, and plucked the empty mug from his unresisting fingers, turning away as he picked up his own empty vessel. Doyle had not heard Bodie move from the sofa, and mentally chastised himself for his lapse in concentration. Bodie favoured his partner with a typical Bodie-smirk as he poured black coffee from a pot that had been stood on the hot plate all night and had probably, as a result, evolved into some sort of intelligent life-form. Doyle accepted the mug and drank it gratefully in any case, grimacing at the bitterness. Bodie dumped a couple of sugars in his and drank it with apparent relish, making Doyle groan. Playfully, looking none the worse for wear after a night on the couch, Bodie reached over and ruffled Doyle's hair, making his partner jerk away from him evasively.

"Find anything interesting?" Bodie enquired, stretching out muscles that were probably cramped from napping on the sofa.

"No apparent link between our victims," Doyle shook his head, as though irritated at himself for not knowing the answers, "no indication of how they came into contact with whatever poison killed them, although we do know it was deliberate murder. No clue as to why or how the victims were selected, although elements of pre-meditative conduct show in each case – so some thought must have gone into the set up. We've certainly got no idea as to who is doing this, why, and what's going to happen next."

Bodie frowned thoughtfully. The case had the police scared and CI5 in confusion as they chased an apparently random spate of deaths caused by what was being termed 'an unknown biological agent'. The press was being kept well out of the matter but it would only be a matter of time before they got more than a whiff of the cover-up. Bodie knew, instinctively, that a break would come soon – they had done well to keep the mysterious deaths off the front page for six weeks, but with the tenacity of the reporters it was only a matter of time before the news broke that people were randomly dying of a horrific poison and a mass panic was sparked in the city of London. His dark musings were interrupted by a knock on the door as Betty, Cowley's secretary, stuck her head around the door.

"Mister Cowley wants to see you," she said, without preamble, "he's got the medical report on the victims found last night."

Sharing a dark look with his partner, Bodie snatched up his suit jacket and followed Doyle out through the door.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

During the night, Karl Fulham visited several tough bars and rough pubs, looking for informants. Six had been a no-go; the patrons too suspicious of newcomers to answer any questions. The seventh had resulted in a fight, with Karl being mistaken for an undercover copper. In the eighth bar, with Karl sporting a split lip, a black eye, and five twenty-pound notes, the barman had poured him a drink and told him a name.

"That one?" he'd said, pointing to one of the three photos Karl laid out on the bar, "yeah, I know him. He used to be a regular around here – and not in a good way for most of these guys. He's – or was – a copper."

The barman tapped the photo knowingly.

"That's Ray Doyle. Word on the street is he's with CI5 now."

The barman had earned a grim smile and the five twenties. His memory of the conversation suitably erased, the barman went back to work – and so did Karl.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was the early hours of morning. Cowley looked up from the file on his desk as Bodie and Doyle entered, appraising them in the briefest of glances. Both looked tired and unshaven; Bodie still wore his suit, somewhat mud-stained in the trousers and rumpled from wear. Doyle looked equally dishevelled, but both agents had a bright spark in the eye that spoke of an eagerness to break this case.

"You wanted to see us, sir?" Bodie said, evenly.

"Yes," Cowley replied, at length, and tapped the file on the desk, "Dr. Winter sent over his medical report. It doesn't tell us much more than we already knew. Both victims were fatally poisoned. The poison conforms to no other known poison; there is a possibility it's synthetic rather than naturally occurring. However, like all poisons it must be specifically administered to a victim, either by injection or ingestion. It speeds up the putrefaction process and thus far has proven impossible for our labs to replicate. We have yet to find an antidote."

"Anything different about these two compared to the other victims?" Doyle asked, picking up the file.

He leafed through it, still listening intently as Cowley continued.

"Not really," the CI5 chief responded, "the girl died first, possibly as much as a day earlier than her boyfriend. She apparently ingested the poison – no sign of needle marks anywhere on her. Mike Reed was injected, possibly some time after Kerry-Anne was infected. Both died hard."

Doyle suppressed a wince as he looked at the two photographs. Two young people, cut down cruelly by one of the strangest murder weapons Doyle had ever come across… something nagged in the back of his mind, and he tried to chase the thought.

"Someone's using a synthetic poison as a murder weapon," he said, thinking out loud, "someone who, perhaps deliberately, designed the poison to be very slow acting, initially mimicking the symptoms of the flu virus."

Doyle began to pace, closing the file and tapping it up and down on his open palm. Bodie and Cowley simply watched him, both instinctively knowing that Doyle was onto something, working it through.

"An intended victim," Doyle repeated, "could ingest the poison at any time, walk away from the murderer, and be dead two or three days later… giving the murderer ample time to disappear before anyone knows a crime's been committed."

Cowley nodded, slowly. Things were starting to come together.

"But… why chose these people as victims?" Bodie mused.

"In a minute," Doyle stopped pacing and held up the file, waving it vaguely as he chased the fleeting thoughts through his mind, "it's a slow way to kill someone, but as effective as a knife or a bullet with the added bonus of an extended escape time… the perfect weapon, targeted, effective, albeit slow… a dream for a patient assassin or a murderer who needs to keep their distance…"

"But why choose these people?" Bodie repeated, impatiently, "just using it randomly to kill innocent people on the streets?"

They considered this for a brief moment.

"To spread fear, maybe," Doyle mused, and then corrected himself, "no…No!"

He dropped the file on the desk and whipped around to face Cowley, his eyes bright. The thing that had been staring him in the face all night had finally kicked itself into place.

"The link between the victims," he said, "we thought there wasn't one, but maybe there is. The link is the fact that all the victims are different!"

Bodie screwed his forehead up in a frown of bemusement, which just as suddenly fell away as realisation dawned. It hit Cowley at just about the same moment, and he pounced forward and slammed his hand down on the desk.

"That's it, Doyle!" Cowley exclaimed, "The victims – a young man into drugs. Then there was the old woman; followed by a middle aged white woman, a middle-aged black man, and then a young woman and a clean-living young man. All different, and yet all used for the same purpose…"

"To test the poison," Bodie said, disgust putting an edge to his voice, "they were used as guinea pigs!"

"They're testing the effectiveness," Doyle agreed, grimly, "the element of preparation beforehand – rope, stolen taxi, conveniently isolated locations… they were probably observing the tests, watching the effect of the poison on different people…"

He trailed off, and could not suppress a grimace this time at the thought of coldly watching someone die over the course of two or three days.

"So now we know how, and possibly why," Cowley continued, keeping the briefing on track, "we already had when's and where's. Only one question remains… who?"

"Terrorists," guessed Bodie.

"Possibly," Cowley conceded, doubtfully.

Bodie shared a look with Doyle. They were both thinking the same thing; that this was an entirely new phenomena to CI5, and that dealing with it was going to be… interesting.

"We've seen stranger," Doyle shrugged, "remember the student terrorists who managed to synthesise cocaine?"

"Aye," Cowley nodded, thoughtfully.

"Could be anyone, then," Bodie scowled.

"Could they have a specific target in mind?" Doyle wondered, before answering his own question, "probably not, if they're testing it on a variety of people…"

A horrible thought, too terrible to really comprehend, suddenly struck him, and he swore under his breath. Bodie raised a questioning eyebrow.

"What if they suddenly decide to start testing it on larger groups?" Doyle phrased the question that had been on Cowley's mind for a good ten minutes already, "or worse…on kids?"

"Enough 'what ifs'," Cowley snapped, "we need to keep focussed."

"Perhaps they're developing it for sale," Bodie suggested, "there are people out there who would pay a fortune for something like this."

"And they'd use it on people we're supposed to protect," Cowley agreed.

They were interrupted from any further discussion by a knock at the door.

"Come in!" Cowley shouted, not entirely pleased by the intrusion.

His frown did not lessen as Tony Webster entered the room, followed by his partner, Alanis Hogan. Webster and Hogan were fairly new to CI5, and had yet to fully prove themselves to Cowley.

"Sir," Webster, an ex-cop and a top athlete, rapped out his words quickly, "we've been onto the guys at forensics. They found some broken glass at the scene – from a hypodermic needle."

Hogan stepped forward. She was not, in any sense, particularly attractive, with a tall, thin build, pale face and long dark hair worn in a braid. A former MI6 agent, Hogan was pretty handy with a knife and interrogative techniques not generally used by the regular police.

"We believe the hypodermic was used to administer the poison to Mike Reed," she said, her voice quiet, "they're running more tests, but we think we're onto finally getting a sample of the poison in it's pure form."

"Good," Cowley nodded, briefly, "now, the next step. We know that the poison is man-made – manufactured. That takes time, skill, resources and most of all, money. I want all four of you out on the streets. Lean on your contacts and lean on them hard. If we can find the lab where this thing was made we can take these guys down."

The four agents moved to leave with an obedient chorus of 'Yes, Sir's'.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Despite the early hours and the long night, Karl had not yet taken the time to sleep. He had reported in to his employers with what he had found. CI5 had clearly taken over the investigation, which was probably to have been expected. The man in charge would be George Cowley, a name to be remembered and feared as the name of a man who got results. He'd put his two best agents on the case – Ray Doyle, an ex-copper whose name had been muttered to Karl with varying degrees of disgust ranging to grudging respect in many of the dodgy bars and back-street haunts of London. The other was Bodie, apparently an ex-mercenary, tough and uncompromising. Karl liked to have good competition from the other side, as it kept him on his toes. However, his employers were less than happy with the prospect of CI5 on their backs, and run the risk of interference with their plans. Karl's instructions were clear.

"Dissuade them. By any means necessary. Do it."

Retiring to a dingy, anonymous flat, Karl lay down on the tattered mattress, and began to plan.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Bodie and Doyle headed down-town towards the dockyards, where an old contact of Bodie's had put them on the trail of another contact specialising in what he termed 'acquisitions', who'd been asking about getting rid of some lab equipment. Bodie drove his Capri with undisguised glee, having recently recovered it from a CI5 garage where the engine had been given something of a tune-up. Doyle yawned and leaned back in his seat.

"So how'd you get on with the lovely Anita over the weekend?" he asked, glancing across at Bodie.

"Ah, I thought you'd never ask, mate. She was so fine…"

Bodie and Doyle were both grinning as the Capri came to halt at their destination with a squeal of tyres and a hint of smoke. They hopped out of the car, as Bodie patted the silvery-grey bonnet of the car appreciatively. Their expressions grew serious as they approached the warehouse. Two big, bulky men stood outside, smoking casually, but the gaze that landed upon the two CI5 agents was distinctly unfriendly. Bodie and Doyle strode up fearlessly.

"Well, well, well," Bodie said, appraisingly, "Isn't this a surprise. Barry and Reggie – are you two still doing the dirty work?"

The two 'heavies' stared at Bodie sullenly. They knew the CI5 man from previous run-ins, which meant that they really should have had more sense. Barry was about Bodie's height, thick set in both physical build and mental acuity. Reggie was smaller, thinner, and sharper. Barry swung his fist at Bodie, as Reggie lunged at Doyle. Bodie blocked one blow but a punch caught his jaw and sent him spinning. He recovered quickly, tasting blood on his lip, and slammed in a hard gut-punch that doubled Barry up. Barry roared, and charged with his head down, tacking Bodie and bringing him crashing to the floor. Bodie kicked upwards, hard, throwing Barry backwards as Bodie used his own momentum to get back up on his feet. Reeling, Barry staggered up and then fell to Bodie's last, swift punch. Doyle had simply side-stepped Reggie's lunge and sent him head-first into the side of the warehouse. He nodded approvingly at Bodie.

"That'll get you some sympathy from the girls in the office," he commented, gesturing to his partner's split lip.

Bodie raised a sarcastic smile in response.

"Here, I'll give you one to match," he offered, raising his fist.

Doyle laughed and swatted away the mock-punch, as the two agents stepped over the unconscious guards, and pushed open a small door to enter the warehouse.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Inside, it was dark and quiet. Dim bulbs hanging overhead only seemed to emphasise the darkness amongst the stacked boxes and crates. Warily, Bodie and Doyle reached for their handguns instinctively, eyes flickering everywhere, not missing a thing. Footsteps rang out loudly, and they both snapped their weapons around to bear on an overhead walkway.

"Come on, now, boys! Put those toys away," said a voice from above, "really, there's no need. Not in my house."

"Hello, Suzy," Bodie smiled, holstering his gun.

"This is your contact? Why am I not surprised…?" Doyle murmured, copying his partner's example and holstering his weapon.

Grinning, Suzy bounded down the stairs. She was petite, bottle-blonde, clad in black trousers with a red polo-neck and a denim jacket. She strode over to Bodie and, without hesitation, flung herself into his arms and their lips met in a deeply passionate kiss. Doyle smirked and rolled his eyes slightly. Their embrace coming slowly to an end, Bodie grinned down at Suzy.

"Suzy, this is Doyle, my partner."

"Hi," Suzy's blue eyes raked him up and down appraisingly.

"Charmed," Doyle responded, dryly.

Pleasantries aside, Suzy sat down on a packing crate and stared up at the pair.

"So what the hell do you want?" she asked, calmly.

"We're interested in certain…chemical supplies," Bodie replied, raising his eyebrows suggestively, "probably came in some time ago, possibly through you… or one of your associates?"

"Stop there," Suzy held up a hand, and got up, taking a few steps away, "you know damn well I don't talk about my shipments. And you don't ask, because I bring in and ship out enough stuff for your guys as well."

"We know," Bodie agreed, "but this is important, Sue."

Suzy scowled at him, pulling a cigarette out of her pocket and lighting it.

"It's bad for business, having you guys around," she scolded them with a glower; "you dealt with Reggie and Barry, then?"

"Out cold out front," Bodie jerked a thumb over his shoulder, "come on Sue. Six people are dead already and we need a break. Do you know the shipment that we're talking about?"

Suzy glanced around her warehouse, and then met Bodie's gaze.

"Damn your eyes, Bodie," she said, softly, "why did I let you do this to me? Okay – yes. There was a shipment, about two months ago. UK medical supplies, chemical research equipment, all sorts of stuff, bound for labs out in Europe."

"It never made it?" Bodie guessed.

Suzy shook her head.

"The weather was bad – a real bad storm. The boat got into difficulty and the research team abandoned it as a lost cause, so my boys got the salvage rights."

"What did you do with the medical equipment?" Doyle pressed.

Suzy's gaze flicked to him momentarily, still trying to decide if she trusted the tousle-haired stranger Bodie had brought with him.

"Come on, Sue, love," Bodie smiled.

Suzy rolled her eyes.

"A lot of it was government stuff, so we had to return it… if we found it," she added, meaningfully, "it was amazing how little of the cargo was recovered. The rest found its way to the bottom of the ocean…"

"…Of creates in this warehouse," Bodie finished, "I know you, Sue – you already had a buyer. I need a name."

"No names."

"A name, Sue," Bodie's voice lost the playful, flirtatious tone.

"I didn't have a name!" she replied, flicking her hair and refusing to be swayed by the glare Bodie gave her, "by the way, I want a favour."

"You've not given us a lot to go on," Bodie replied, coldly.

"I might have more," Suzy batted her eyelids in an outrageously flirtatious manner, "in exchange for a really big favour."

"Tell me more."

"The guy hired a van he used to move the equipment he bought from me," Suzy replied, "I know the driver because I recommended him…now, what's his name…?"

Suzy left the sentence hanging.

"What would jog your memory?" Bodie asked, playing along.

Suzy's pretty face grew serious.

"I'm bringing in a shipment on Tuesday night," she said, "no drugs or guns, nothing like that. It's just a few videos that are, well… not exactly the Disney variety. I'd appreciate it if I could be assured there won't be any vice squad busts around here that night…?"

Bodie and Doyle exchanged a knowing glance.

"Consider it done," Bodie nodded, "provided you're right on about the van."

"Look for Sammy Brooke," Suzy replied, "he's the van driver, okay?"

Doyle simply nodded; and half-turned away as Bodie laid another smooch on Suzy, pressing her lithe body close to his.

"Thanks, darling," he grinned, "See you around."

"Only the next time you want something," Suzy smirked back, "next time, I wouldn't mind if it was something a little more interesting than a van…?"

Suzy wiggled her hips suggestively. Doyle groaned, reached out, grabbed Bodie's shoulder, and hauled him out of the warehouse.

"Come on, Romeo," he said, "we've got work to do."

Bodie blew Suzy a final kiss, and followed his partner back out into the morning sunshine.


	3. Chapter 3

From a discreet distance, Karl Fulham had watched as Doyle and Bodie had taken down the two guards outside the warehouse. It was not much of a fight, the two agents having won easily. Still, their skill showed in the way they moved, though Karl had expected them to be good. He had been following them since this morning; or, more specifically, he had been following one of them. CI5 were good at moving their agents around as far as accommodation was concerned, but it was amazing what information could be purchased on the streets.

Now all Karl needed to do was to stick close and wait for his opportunity to strike. He waited, patiently, keeping his eyes on the warehouse. He recognised the place – he'd been here before, two months back. He frowned. CI5 should never have been able to find out about this place so quickly – and the fact that they were taking some time within the building suggested that the silly bitch owner was talking. His frown deepened into a scowl as he though about how much money he'd paid her for the supplies requested by his employers, with extra to stop that pretty jaw from flapping. He reached into his jacket, his leather-gloved fingers gently brushing the butt of the gun holstered at his shoulder, and then withdrew his touch. The heavies at the door were just starting to regain consciousness as the two CI5 agents left the building and climbed back into their car. Karl watched the Capri drive away, before heading to his own vehicle, and he began to follow at a very safe distance.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Back in the Capri, Doyle radioed through the name that Suzy had given Bodie, and mentally crossed his fingers for a good result. While they waited for a result, Bodie tooled the Capri around the streets, pulling up next to a newsagent. He hopped out, while Doyle waited in the car. Bodie soon came back, tossing his partner a pre-packed sandwich.

"Your friend Suzy wasn't too forthcoming about what exactly was in those crates," Doyle said, grimly, as he accepted the sandwich Bodie passed him, "thanks. If she was telling the truth…"

"The bio-samples could be anything," Bodie replied, with a frown, "you reckon they used the samples to manufacture the poison?"

"Odd poison," Doyle nodded to show his agreement, "acts like a virus; kills like a poison."

Bodie shrugged, chewing thoughtfully on his lunch.

"I'm not a doctor," he replied, at last, "but I know what you mean. And it's a bloody slow way to kill someone."

At that point, the radio beeped, and Doyle picked it up, hastily swallowing the bite of sandwich.

"4-5, go ahead."

"4-5, this is Control. Got a hit on that name - one Mr Samuel Brooke, at a London address…"

Bodie hauled the Capri out into traffic as Control rattled off the address.

"Thanks control," Doyle responded, "any news from Hogan and Webster?"

"Hogan's on her way to check out a lead, no details as yet," the voice of Control answered, quickly, "Webster yet to check in – only left base ten minutes ago. Got anything else?"

"No thanks, Control - 4-5 out."

Doyle clicked off the radio, and dropped it back into place. Bodie flashed him a quick grin, and they both felt it – the first thrill of having caught a lead on the case. As they wove around the busy London traffic, they felt like they were finally getting somewhere.

Bodie slowly brought the Capri to a halt, not wanting to draw attention to their arrival with his usual impressive squeal of tyres. For a moment, both of the agents stared at the run-down block of flats; not so much questioning the voracity of Control's information, but simply assessing the situation as their instincts and training bade them to. Slowly, they got out of the car, acute senses taking in all of the information available. It was well past noon, and the late September sun warmed the air. A faint breeze ruffled Bodie's hair as he surreptitiously checked his handgun. He noticed Doyle had done the same. Although the afternoon was warm, pleasant and quiet, an unmistakeable sense of foreboding had come over the two agents. Without a word, yet acting in unison, Bodie and Doyle began to walk towards the block of flats.

"That must be the van," Doyle pointed to a dark blue Ford Transit.

Bodie spared the van barely a glance. It looked old and battered, the wheel-arches being slowly eaten away by rust. The passenger-side door was an obvious replacement, being bright red, as was the grey-coloured bonnet. They passed by the van – if indeed it had been used to shift a cargo of medical an chemical supplies about two months ago, it was unlikely that there would still be any evidence inside. Upon entering the grim building, they were not surprised to find themselves in a filthy corridor, with litter strewn across the floor and graffiti smeared across the walls. The usual slogans abounded, Bodie noted with some amusement, including such strokes of inspired genius as 'All gays are gay' and 'All fuzz are pigs'.

"Lift's out of order," Bodie commented, "what floor are we looking for?"

"Thirteenth," Doyle replied, craning his neck to look up the stairs, "Flat number 26."

"Right – race you!"

Doyle had no chance to protest as Bodie took off up the stairs.

"Loser buys the drinks!" Bodie shouted over his shoulder.

With a resigned groan, Doyle leapt up the stairs and ran after his boisterous partner. Bodie reached the thirteenth floor just a step ahead of Doyle, despite his head-start. Breathing deeply, he stretched his arms and grinned as Doyle paused for a moment to catch his breath. Snapping back to a mode of professionalism, Bodie placed his right hand lightly on the butt of his gun, as Doyle rang the doorbell. Long moments passed, and Doyle pressed the buzzer again. Eventually, the door opened a crack and eye peered out. It was the edge Bodie needed. With a savage shove, he entered the flat and grabbed the occupant. Doyle followed him in, slamming the door shut.

"Are you Sammy Brooke?" Bodie demanded, of the man he held by the collar.

Too shocked to speak, the man simply nodded quickly, almost overzealously. He was middle-aged, of slim build bordering on scrawny, with greasy shoulder-length hair and a straggle of a beard. He wore tattered denim jeans of a non-descript grey colour and a stained red-chequered shirt under a denim jacket with the sleeves torn off.

"Is that your van outside?" Doyle added.

Again, the quick nod, as the man's eyes flicked between one and the other of the agents.

"Who…," he began, before he choked and stopped.

Licking his lips, Sam Brooke started again, managing to rasp out; "Who are you?"

"I'm Doyle, he's Bodie," Doyle replied, casually flicking his badge in Brooke's face, "CI5. We've got some questions for you, Sammy."

Bodie hauled the scrawny man into a lounge that was no cleaner than the litter-strewn corridor outside. The floor was littered with empty beer cans, cigarette butts and empty take-away cartons. Bodie curled his lip slightly at the odour of rotting food and stale smoke. Rather more roughly than strictly necessary, he threw Brooke onto the couch, before folding his arms and fixing the cowering man with a baleful glare. Neither he nor Doyle dared to take a seat in the filthy flat.

"What's this about?" Brooke demanded, wildly looking from one man to the other, "I ain't done nothing; I swear!"

"About two months ago, you and your van were around the dockyards, shifting some boxes for someone," Doyle reminded him, "Tell us about that, Sammy."

"I ain't done nothing…" Sammy Brooke repeated; though he sounded less certain of it this time around.

"You can talk to us here," Bodie growled, "or we can take you down to the cells… one of the ones in the cellars… where no-one outside can hear you… and you'll talk there."

Hardened cons would not have been fazed; despite the very genuine threat of physical violence, but Sammy Brooke was, as Bodie would have put it, a seven-stone weakling. He crumpled without Bodie having to so much as raise an eyebrow, let alone his fist.

"It was just a job," Sammy whined, "I'd pretty much forgotten about it. Did Suzy send you?"

Bodie and Doyle remained silent, staring at him coldly. Sammy squirmed under their gaze, and the words began to flow.

"Suzy, you see, she, she sometimes has, has like, these customers? They buy stuff but kind of, um, forget to bring proper transport? I mean, I remember 'cause this one guy, this doctor guy? I mean, he turned up on foot. On foot! Expected transport laid on, like. So Suzy called me up and said, like, 'I've got you a job.' So I go down there, and she has some of her boys load these boxes into a van. Then this doctor-geezer gets into the van, and tells me I'll be paid on delivery and he's going to direct me. We were driving for like two hours!"

"Where did you go, Sammy?" Doyle's voice was low, dangerous, but encouraging, 'good cop' to Bodie's 'bad cop'.

"Some place in the country," Brooke shrugged, "a real dive, used to be some sort of farm. Just a run down cottage and a few sheds."

"Where is it?" Doyle persisted.

"I don't remember! It was two months ago," Brooke protested, showing his first real spark of defiance, "Just some old farm."

"Tell me a name! There must have been a sign, a name of the place, or something," Doyle pressed him, "And what about your cargo, and the passenger? Describe them."

Sammy Brooke was starting to overcome his fear, but the combined glares of these two tough men were more than his weak spine could tolerate.

"I never got the guy's name," he mumbled, running a hand through his filthy hair, "he said the cargo was medical supplies, but I don't know for sure. Didn't sound legit, you know? Anyway, I never got out the van – Suzy's boys and some of the dock yard rat-tramps did the loading. I just did the driving. Like I said, we, we drove for like two hours, out into the country. Took a real winding route from what I remember, and it was at night. Didn't see a name of the place or nothing, but it was definitely an old farm place."

"What happened next?" Doyle asked.

Sammy just shrugged his habitual shrug.

"Not a lot," he answered, "I stayed in the van while two other guys came out and did the unloading – just a couple of heavies, from the looks of them. Then the guy in charge came around to my window, shoved a bunch of notes at me and told me the usual 'you-ain't-seen-nothing' crap and I took off out."

"How long did it take you to get back?" Bodie wanted to know.

Again, there was a shrug; "About an hour and a half, maybe?"

Bodie and Doyle shared a quick look over the man's head. Establishing that there was little else the pathetic wretch could tell them, Bodie favoured him with one last glare.

"Don't leave town, Sammy," he warned him, "we might have more questions for you later, and God help you if we have to chase you down to ask them."

Sammy shuddered slightly, and nodded, licking his dry lips. Satisfied, Bodie led the way out of the stinking flat.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Karl sat across the street in his non-descript grey Ford, staring at the building the two agents had just entered. He had cursed, loudly and colourfully, when he had seen the distinctive van belonging to the wormy guy who'd done the driving for Karl those two months ago.

"I knew I should've killed him," Karl growled, under his breath.

He knew the man would not be able to stand up to a stiff breeze, let alone two CI5 men. If they were half as tough as their reputations suggested, Sammy Brooke had probably shit himself as soon as he'd seen them. Karl swore again, and lit a cigarette. Breathing in deeply, he savoured the taste and blew the smoke out through the half-open window of his car. Luckily, traffic was fairly heavy. He looked for all the world like a tired driver who'd pulled over for a quiet cigarette break. His eyes, deceptively half-lidded, keenly observed the two agents leaving the grungy flats after just a few minutes – probably armed with the information they needed to take them straight to Karl's employers. Something that Karl was being very well paid to prevent. He dropped the cigarette butt out onto the road, and started up the car. The CI5 agents were clearly waiting for something, but Karl was not. He gently eased his car into traffic, and pulled away. He still had more work to do – no rest for the wicked…

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Once outside, both agents took a welcome breath of fresh air, as they made their way back to Bodie's silver-grey Ford Capri. Doyle picked up the R/T, calling into control.

"Control here – go ahead, 4-5."

"We need someone to get out a map," Doyle said, "using the southland docks as a starting point, locate any old farmsteads within a driving radius of about an hour and a half – say, within seventy miles. Guy would be driving a Ford Transit van, at night, on quiet roads, at a steady speed."

"That's a very wide area, 4-5," said the voice of Control, a little doubtfully.

"How hard can it be?" Doyle quipped, "We're looking for an abandoned farm, probably somewhere due south – probably out in Kent. Check with the computer and see what comes up. Let us know a.s.a.p."

"Will do 4-5 – Control out."

Doyle clicked off the R/T and dropped it back into his pocket.

"Where do we go now?" Bodie asked, stifling a yawn.

"Make a big show of leaving, then park around the corner somewhere. I want to see if Sammy makes a move," Doyle replied, "he's just twitchy enough to make a break for it, and if he does I want to see where he goes."

Bodie nodded, and slipped the clutch on the Capri so that with a roar of the engine, the car was thrown into reverse, and then took off into traffic. Slowing to a halt, Bodie pulled around in a surprisingly gentle but not-too-legal U-turn and parked the car quietly on the curb, behind a Granada that afforded them some cover. Less than ten minutes later, they were rewarded by the sight of Sammy's patched-up van pulling out into traffic. Bodie turned on the ignition, and began to follow at a discreet distance.

Neither of the agents was overly surprised to find themselves back at the dockyards. Barry and Reggie, the two heavies Bodie and Doyle had taken down earlier, were back on their feet. Barry was sporting a black eye and Reggie had an impressive welt on his forehead. Neither looked particularly pleased to see Sammy's van pull up, and they were so busy watching Sammy shuffling towards them that they did not see the Ford Capri pull up behind some crates. Wordlessly, Bodie and Doyle slid out of the car and moved in for a closer look. They peered over the tops of some large wooden boxes, watching the nearby exchange. Sammy seemed to be pleading for entry, while Barry stood with his arms folded, looking more than capable of breaking the little twig of a man in half. Eventually, Barry made a dismissive gesture, and Reggie disappeared inside the warehouse.

"We need to get closer," Bodie murmured.

Doyle ducked his head in agreement. Skirting around the boxes, the two of them found shelter behind some empty gas canisters stacked up beside the warehouse.

"…Got to speak to Suzy," Sammy was saying, practically pleading, "had CI5 at my flat! My flat! Never had trouble with them before, just regular fuzz…"

He continued a litany of alternate whining, pleading and cajoling, until Barry had apparently had enough.

"Shut it," the big man snarled, "before I remove the lower half of your jaw to stop it flapping!"

Sammy managed a fearful whine, and lapsed into silence. Eventually, the petite, blonde figure of Suzy appeared. All trace of flirtatiousness seen earlier was gone, replaced by a cold, hard glare.

"What the hell are you doing here?" she snapped, taking a hefty drag on a cigarette, "And what the bloody hell do you want?"

"Sue," Sammy whined, plaintively, "Two CI5 guys just showed up at my flat, asking about that job I did for you two months ago – the medical supplies job? What the hell's going on? They were threatening to rough me up – take me in and all sorts!"

"You little weed," Suzy said, contemptuously, "I thought it would be something important! Its not us they're interested in, get it? They're after the buyer, not the supplier."

"Yeah, but they might come after me again," Sammy pleaded, "I've done time before – I don't want to go back!"

"Better you don't know anything, then, isn't it?" Suzy shot back, "If you don't know, you can't talk."

"Know what, I wonder?" Bodie murmured, in a low voice.

Doyle shrugged, glancing over his shoulder. Despite the ample amount of cover, he felt strangely exposed, and wondered what they were actually getting themselves into with this one. Shaking his head, he turned his attention back to the scene before him.

"God help you, Sammy, if you've brought down CI5 on me," Suzy was saying, "I have enough of a job handling those guys as it is. Were you followed?"

"No," Sammy replied, a little too quickly, "no, no way. I was careful."

Suzy scowled.

"You're an idiot," she shot back, crossly, "I swear, Sammy, you'll not work for me again if you're going to make amateur mistakes. All we did was supply the equipment requested, at no small amount of trouble and expense I might add. You were well paid for your small part – it's not as though you were involved in the boat raid. Now get the hell out of here before I have Barry and Reggie do a number on you worse than any copper can."

With a final, wordless whine, Sammy scampered off towards his van. Behind their cover, Doyle and Bodie exchanged a significant look. They waited silently as Suzy slipped back into the warehouse and the two 'guards' took up their lounging stances once more. Quietly, the two CI5 agents slipped back to their car. Bodie eased it into gear, and drove sedately out of the dockyard. Doyle picked up the radio again.

"4-5 to Control - come in, over."

"Control here – Go ahead, 4-5."

"I'm afraid I've got some more work for you. I need someone to check the records - this may involve the coastguard, or it may be international. About two to three months ago, somewhere, a boat carrying medical supplies or chemical research equipment was either raided or sunk and the supplies salvaged or stolen. Get someone onto it and see what comes up."

"Will do, 4-5 – anything else we can do for you?"

Doyle smiled at the edge of sarcasm in the radio operator's tired voice.

"Try getting yourself some coffee, love," he replied, still smiling, "4-5 out."

There was a pause, as they considerered their new information.

"Suzy wasn't telling the whole truth, then," Doyle said, dropping the radio back into place.

"She never does," Bodie grinned, not bothering to defend his attractive source, "but at least we're chasing a lead."

"What do you want to do next?" Doyle asked, leaning back in the seat and rubbing his tired eyes.

Bodie grinned suggestively.

"How about we discuss it over dinner?"

Doyle glanced back at him with a smirk.

"Your place or mine?"


	4. Chapter 4

Less than half an hour later, Doyle emerged from a local fish-and-chip shop clutching two packages. Getting back into the car, he tossed one at Bodie and then began to tuck in himself. Between mouthfuls, the two agents reviewed their case between them.

"Six victims, all test subjects of a manufactured poison," Doyle began, munching his chips, "no apparent motive for the manufacture, but we know it's a long, slow death and a victim may not know he's a victim until symptoms appear, by which time the killer's had hours – maybe a day or more – to disappear."

"Victim would probably exhibit flu-like symptoms after six to eight hours," Bodie continued, recalling the medical reports, "Headaches, muscle pains, fever, etc. This steadily worsens over maybe one or two days – three at the most – before death occurs."

"We still don't have a lead as to who, or why," Doyle picked up the thread, "but we know the supplies were brought in by your friend Suzy, assisted by a couple of tramps to do the lifting and a weasel called Sammy provided transport."

"The poison is deadly. We don't have a sample of it as yet, or an antidote," Bodie added, darkly, "It could potentially wipe out large centres of population if used in the water supplies, or high-placed targets from the slightest exposure. Can be inhaled, injected or ingested."

"We know there's a lab, somewhere, where this thing was created," Doyle nodded, his expression hard, "probably at some isolated, disused farm out in the country. This thing's obviously taken a lot of time and money, so it's got some financial backing from somewhere, and the stakes are high. We need to find the farm, and find out where the supplies came from, where they were going and why, before they were intercepted by Suzy."

"Agreed," Bodie nodded, picking up a vinegar-soaked chip and chewing it slowly, "so where do we go now, professor?"

Doyle sighed and shook his head.

"Home to bed would be nice," he said, ruefully, casting a glance at the darkening sky as the streetlights came on.

"Sorry sunshine," Bodie grinned, "you're not my type."

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

With little else to do before the next day, Bodie drove Doyle home and dropped him off, before heading back to his own flat. Bodie had just stepped through the front door when his R/T bleeped at him. He growled a curse at it, throwing his keys onto the coffee table as he picked up the offending object.

"What?" he snarled into it.

"Bodie," the terse voice of Cowley made Bodie close his eyes and curse quietly but colourfully under his breath, "listen. We've got a lead on the lab. You and Doyle were right – there are two abandoned farm houses within the search radius you gave. We've dismissed one as it's in the process of being demolished to make way for a village bypass. The other one looks good – It's called Moat Farm. It was purchased 3 months ago for 'development purposes' by a Mr Harold Knight. Have you got that?"

"Yes sir," Bodie tried to inject a little enthusiasm into his voice, without that much real enthusiasm.

It had been a long shift, and spending last night on a couch at CI5 HQ had done little for him in the way of real sleep and he was starting to feel the effects. He listened as Cowley reeled off the address.

"Shall I pick up 4-5 on the way?" he asked, referring to Doyle by his operative number.

"Doyle's already on his way," Cowley replied, "So are Hogan and Webster. They'll be meeting you there. I've got to go and meet with the minister. Your orders are to surround the farm, investigate, and report to me directly. If it is the lab, I want informants and I want them taken alive, Bodie. Alive! Is that understood?"

"Understood, sir," Bodie replied.

He was already reaching for his keys again, and heading for the front door.

"Good; Alpha-Charlie out."

Bodie sighed, clicked off the R/T, and amused himself by swearing eloquently and at length all the way from his front door and back to his car. Gunning the engine and, to the eternal chagrin of his neighbours, Bodie stamped down hard on the accelerator and the car squealed out onto the streets, roaring away into the darkening night.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

As it happened, Doyle was not quite on his way. When he'd received the call from Cowley, he'd gone out to his garage with the intention of using his bike to get out to Moat Farm – a much faster mode of transport than the car, particularly through busy London streets, and he wasn't about to miss the opportunity to really open up the throttle down some quiet country roads, even if it was starting to get dark already. So, he'd pulled gloves and helmet out of his cupboard and headed down to the garage, only to find a man apparently trying to break in through the padlock.

"Hey!" Doyle yelled, "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

The man whipped around, and Doyle caught sight of non-descript jeans, grey tee-shirt, and a faded black leather jacket. He lunged forward, making a grab at the man. The man – dark hair, dark eyes – actually stepped forward to meet the attack, which momentarily surprised Doyle, as most burglars, if interrupted, would try to make a run for it, not stand their ground. The man lashed out with a fast punch that took Doyle just under his ribs. Doyle gasped at the unexpected sharp pain accompanying the punch, but sucked in a deep breath and lashed out, hard. The blow caught the man's jaw and spun him around, and sent him sprawling. However, he recovered quickly, got to his feet, and scrambled a dash out of the yard. Doyle made to follow, albeit winded from the punch, but remembered that he had more pressing matters to attend to than a potential bike thief. Opening the garage door, he beheld his beloved bike, before pulling on his helmet and gloves. Snapping down the visor and revving the engine, Doyle relaxed into a low seated position and peeled out into traffic, the pleasure of the ride marred only slightly by a nagging ache in his ribs.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Gasping, his head reeling from the savage punch to the jaw, Karl staggered out of the yard. He'd just made it into his car when he saw Doyle's bike come out of the yard and pull away into traffic. He swore, fumbled for his keys, revved up the engine and began to follow. Rubbing his jaw, the skin already feeling hot and tight with an emerging bruise, Karl cast his eyes down at the object he'd discarded on the seat next to him when he'd climbed into his vehicle. The empty syringe lay there, almost innocently, and Karl swore at it. He'd expected retaliation, but the force of the punch had surprised even him, a veteran of many brawls. He followed the bike for about half an hour, before he knew without a shadow of a doubt where Doyle was going. This time, he let forth a string of curses that would have made a hardened marine blush. The speed with which CI5 had located Moat Farm both surprised and angered him. He knew they were good, but they must be clairvoyant to have found the place so fast! Karl allowed Doyle to disappear into the distance, the bike much faster and much more manoeuvrable than his car. He cruised down the high street before he located a telephone booth. Pulling up next to it, he got out, slamming the car door somewhat harder than necessary. He quickly rang a number he rarely used but had committed to memory.

"It's Karl," he said, quickly, to the voice that answered, "I think you'll have company this evening. Prepare yourself. CI5! Who else? They spoke to that woman at the docks and the guy who did the driving. I said at the time I should have taken care of them! Yes. Yes. Okay. I'll do it tonight. They'll be with you in less than an hour. Okay. Yes. I understand."

The conversation over, Karl put the 'phone down and stepped out of the booth. He glanced around; as night drew in, the roads were growing quieter, and it was getting colder. October was soon to give way to November, and it promised to be a cold one. Karl zipped up his jacket, and got back into his car. Pressing his foot down on the accelerator, he turned the car in a perfect U-turn and took off into the night.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Doyle switched off the headlamp of his bike, slowing down to minimum speed as he crept along the road up to the recently-purchased Moat Farm. It was a long, muddy, dirt track, edged in by fairly thick woodland on either side. The grounds of the farm were clearly expansive and therefore expensive. Mr Harold Knight must have a lot of capital behind him to afford a place like this. Doyle killed the engine on the bike and took the keys from the ignition, dropping them into his jacket pocket as he slid out of the seat and pushed the bike along next to him. Taking off his helmet and hooking it over one of the handgrips, he pushed the bike along the dark road, his only light coming from the full moon overhead.

The night sky was cloudless, affording him some light, but making the night extremely cold. Doyle's breath clouded in front of him as he walked, his footsteps and the tread of the bike muffled in the damp, muddy ground. Eventually, he sighted light in the distance, and could just about make out the silhouette of a modestly-sized farmhouse. There were lights in the windows, though Doyle could see little else. He eased his bike off the track, turned it around in case of the need for a quick escape, and concealed it in the shadows of the trees. Easing off his gloves, he shoved them into his pockets. Flexing his fingers against the cold night air, he took his R/T from his pocket.

"4-5 to 3-7."

There was a long pause, and then Bodie's voice answered; "3-7. Go ahead, Doyle."

"I'm at the farmhouse already. Some signs of life but I've not been up close yet. What's your ETA?"

"I'll be with you in about ten minutes. Any sign of Webster and Hogan?"

"Negative," Doyle replied, his eyes scanning the trees, "not yet, at any rate. See you in a bit, mate; 4-5 out."

He dropped the R/T back into his pocket, and absently rubbed his bruised ribs ruefully, still unable to believe that anyone would have the audacity to try to break into his shed. Maybe the bloke had caught sight of the bike at some point… Doyle shook his tousled head, patting the bike almost affectionately. His garage had more alarms and sensors attached to it than most mansions, thanks to CI5. He drew his gun and checked it, before sliding off the safety. He'd seen no sign of any patrols on his approach, but that did not mean that he could be lax.

Within ten minutes, he'd covered quite a perimeter, coming back to the dirt track just in time to see Bodie's car pull up further down from where he'd parked his bike, lights off, out of sight of the house. Behind him, a dark coloured Rover pulled up to park as noiselessly as possible. Bodie came forwards and greeted his partner, his smirk almost audible in the dark.

"Having fun, sunshine?" he grinned.

"More than you'd think," Doyle grimaced, one hand going to his bruised ribs, "believe it or not I caught some bloke trying to break into my garage tonight."

"He wasn't after that hunk of junk you call a bike, was he?"

Doyle gave Bodie a friendly shove.

"Hey – that hunk of junk got me here a damn sight faster than you did."

Together, they strolled up the path to meet Hogan and Webster.

"You two go around the back," Bodie ordered, "Doyle and I will take the front. It's a simple enough recon – we think our lab could be here but it could have just been a swap-over point. Neither of our sources on this was particularly reliable."

"It's more than we got," Webster admitted, "got the report back from the lab, though. They've got a sample of the poison from the smashed syringe we collected at the warehouse where the last two victims were found. At the moment it defies analysis, but the lab's trying to synthesise an antidote."

"At the moment I'm more interested in catching the guys who made the damned thing," Bodie replied, dismissively, "right, let's go. Keep in touch, kids!"

Hogan growled something inaudible under her breath at the comment, as she and Webster dropped down low and skirted off around to the back of the house.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"How shall we play it?" Doyle asked, staring down the path at the farmhouse.

"Nice and quiet to begin with," Bodie replied.

Half-crouching, they sprinted across the yard, weapons in hand. Bodie came up next to the window, and Doyle took up position next to the front door. Bodie took out his R/T and opened a channel.

"3-7 to all units," he whispered, "front living room, two occupants. Elderly couple, from the looks of it – any other signs of life?"

"6-9 here," said Hogan's voice, laden with amusement, "Webster's made friends with the family dog – an old German Shepherd. Other than that it's quiet as the grave out here."

"Acknowledged, 6-9," Doyle said, into his R/T, "you and 7-3 stay in position. I'm going to try the front door. Direct approach – I'll leave the R/T open, so maintain radio silence."

"Acknowledged, 4-5 - 6-9 out," Hogan replied.

Doyle nodded to Bodie, who nodded back and melted back into the shadows, watching as Doyle stepped up to the front door. A porch light came on, dazzlingly bright, and Doyle squinted in the sudden brightness. Quickly holstering his gun, his adopted a casual air and rang the door bell. There was a fumbling noise from within, before a lock clicked and the door opened barely an inch, held back by a security chain. An eye appeared at the gap, about level with Doyle's shoulder, and it looked him up and down balefully.

"Hello?" said a voice, probably belonging to the owner of the eye, "Can I help you, young man?"

"Err, yeah, please," Doyle said, "my bike broke down just up the road. Can I use your phone, please?"

The door did not budge.

"Do you know what time it is?" said the elderly-sounding voice, querulously, "it's nearly 11 o'clock. What are you doing about this time of night?"

"I was on my way to work," Doyle replied, smoothly, rubbing his hand across his face casually, "I'm a security guard."

The eye regarded him suspiciously for a moment. The door closed, there was a click, and the door opened again, fully this time, revealing a hunched old man, probably Harold Knight, dressed in pyjamas and a dressing gown and nursing a glass of scotch, no doubt a nightcap before bed.

"The phone's in the hall," the old man pointed, somewhat grumpily, "no funny business – or I'll give you such a wallop with this poker…"

The old man feebly waved the implement at Doyle, who simply smiled and nodded. He picked up the phone, and dialled his own home number. He waited a few rings, and then hung up.

"My mate's not answering," he said, in a tone of genuine regret, "mind, he won't be back from work for about twenty minutes yet."

"Your friend works late," the old man said, suspiciously.

"He's a security guard as well," Doyle replied, with a casual shrug, "we work odd shifts."

Still less than reassured, the old man waved the poker a bit aimlessly, apparently less than happy with having this stranger in his house. Doyle smiled reassuringly, and pointed upstairs.

"Mind if I use the loo?" he asked, "Then I'll try my mate again. If he doesn't answer, I'll just leave, okay?"

The old man considered this, eyeing the stairs. Finally, he relented.

"Okay," he nodded, "straight up, first door on the left. I'll be watching where you go – you so much as go sniffing around my wife's jewellery and I'll call the police!"

Doyle smiled to himself as he jogged up the stairs. Entering the bathroom, he waited a few moments, before flushing the toilet and pulling out his R/T.

"3-7, did you get all that?" he asked.

"Sure did," Bodie sounded amused, "are you sure this is the right place?"

"It's the only place for miles," Doyle replied, "certainly the only Moat Farm. No sign of a lab here – not unless it's very cleverly hidden. I'm on my way out – 4-5 out."

Jogging back down the stairs, Doyle went through the motions of making a phone call, and then hung up with a shrug. The old man shook the poker at him, and Doyle laughed.

"Okay, mate, I'm going," he said, holding his hands up, "maybe I can get the bike started again on my own. Thanks for the use of the phone."

The old man grunted something, and Doyle backed out of the front door. The door slammed shut, and there was a rattle of the security chain and the click of a deadbolt. Doyle made a show of walking away down the driveway, almost able to feel the old man's eyes boring into his back from the living room window. He kept a steady pace until he was out of sight and around the corner, before he dropped into the undergrowth and doubled back on himself at a jog, coming up beside Bodie, positioned at the side of the window.

"Seen anything interesting?" Doyle asked, in a low voice.

"Something's not right," Bodie murmured, "Can't quite put my finger on it, though. No sign of a lab in there, then?"

"Didn't get much of a chance to look around," Doyle shrugged, "but there's nothing immediately obvious."

"We'll wait around a while," Bodie suggested, "wait until they go to bed, then go in and take a look around."

"Agreed," Doyle nodded.

Bodie communicated his order to stay put to Webster, who acknowledged it grimly. The night was cold, and ice was already starting to form on the ground. With November less than a week away, winter was coming in early. A chilly breeze stirred the trees as the moon lit the area weakly, casting long shadows that seemed to emphasise the icy night. Time dragged by, the silence broken only by the distant call of a tawny owl and the rustle of small animals in the undergrowth. Doyle shivered, muscles cramped from crouching so still for so long. An hour and a half crawled by, before the downstairs light went off and another came on upstairs. Eventually, this too went out, and the sudden darkness made it feel several degrees colder. Bodie checked his watch. He waited until exactly 2am, and then gave the signal to move in, ordering Hogan and Webster to stay in position while he and Doyle entered the farmhouse.

"I don't suppose you lifted the keys to the door, did you?" Bodie asked, wryly, as he stared at the door.

"Not much chance, mate," Doyle whispered back, "wouldn't try the front door – the security chain will make too much noise."

"Well I can't exactly break a window," Bodie hissed.

"Who said anything about breaking it?" Doyle asked.

He ran his hands across the window to the front room, and found one that wasn't properly latched. Taking a small penknife from his pocket, he opened the blade, fitting it between the edge of the window and its frame, carefully levering it upwards until the latch lifted, and Doyle was able to swing the window open. Bodie raised one eyebrow, and in the darkness made and 'after you' gesture. Doyle placed his hands on the sill, and climbed into the room as quietly as possible. It was warm inside compared to the chill outside; the embers of a fire still smouldered in a grate behind a mesh fireguard. Bodie followed, and the two of them moved silently through the room. Exiting into the hallway, they worked their way around the ground floor. The search revealed very little; only a tidy kitchen, dining room and study, where, despite a thorough search of the paperwork, they found nothing of interest.

"I don't think this is our lab," Bodie whispered, at last.

"We haven't checked upstairs yet," Doyle pointed out, "and there're always the cellars – and the outbuildings."

"3-7 to 6-9 and 7-3," Bodie hissed, "do me a favour and go check around any garages and sheds – we've turned up nothing in here yet."

"6-9, will do – out."

Dropping the R/T into his jacket pocket, Bodie went into the kitchen, where they'd found a door that led down to the cellar of the old house. He tried the latch, and found it firmly locked. He shared a grim look with Doyle in the dimness of the kitchen, and took a pick-lock from his pocket. Applying it quickly, he heard the lock slide back smoothly. Trying the latch again, Bodie was surprised to find the door still refused to budge. He soon realised why.

"It's bolted – from the other side!" he hissed.

Doyle placed his hand on the door thoughtfully.

"Odd," he frowned, "there must be someone down there…"

He leaned against the door, listening hard, but was unable to distinguish any sounds. Bodie tapped his arm, and signalled for withdrawal. Quickly and quietly, the two of them went back out through the living-room window, Doyle carefully pushing it closed behind them. They dropped back behind the shrubbery, shivering in the freezing cold temperature.

"We need to get a look in those cellars," Bodie said, grimly.

"Not without making a hell of a lot of noise we're not," Doyle replied, and picked up his R/T, "4-5 to 7-3 – anything to report?"

"Negative, 4-5," Webster replied, efficiently, "all of the outbuildings are empty – an old stable, a garage and a garden shed are all that's out here. Did you guys find much?"

"Only a door locked from the wrong side," Doyle replied, "hold your position and await further instructions – 4-5 out."

He glanced at Bodie, who was already on the radio to control, talking to Cowley, who, it seemed, slept even less than his agents did.

"Stay there, Bodie," Cowley ordered, "I want that farmhouse monitored. You four are on observation only tonight – you'll be relieved in the morning; Alpha out."

"Thanks," Bodie muttered, as the channel went dead.

He relayed the good news to Hogan and Webster, who quite cheerfully decided that they could set themselves up in the sheltered stable with a good view of the kitchen, leaving Bodie and Doyle to cover the front. Retreating away from the house, the two of them took shelter in the tree line and settled in for the night.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Doyle yawned and sighed as he gazed at the farmhouse. He was chilled to the bone, numb to the point of pain. Dawn was just starting to break over the horizon, and the sky was turning a strange grey colour. During the night, Bodie had gone to move his car out onto the main road, well out of sight of the farmhouse, and had returned with a couple of blankets and a pair of binoculars from the boot. The blankets were of little use in the freezing temperatures, but Doyle pulled his closer as he peered at the farmhouse. Still there was no sign of life. He sighed again, and rubbed a hand over his tired eyes. His head was aching and he felt tired beyond belief. Next to him, Bodie was sitting upright against a tree, dozing fitfully, shivering in his blanket. Suddenly, the crunch of approaching footsteps on the frozen leaf-litter made Doyle whip around, as he reached for his gun. However, he relaxed as soon as he recognised Murphy and Collins approaching, grinning cheerfully, carrying a large rucksack each.

"Morning, Doyle," Murphy grinned, dropping down next to him, "Blimey, mate – you look terrible."

"It's bloody freezing out here, that's why," Doyle replied, with a slight growl, "Thank God you're here. Now I can go home to a hot shower and some sleep!"

"Not so, old boy," Collins replied, too cheerfully for Doyle's liking, "Cowley's out on the main road. He wants a word with you two."

Doyle grumbled a curse, as he reached over and shook Bodie awake.

"Come on," he grunted, "The Cow wants us."

"It's nice to feel wanted," Bodie yawned, glancing around blearily with red-rimmed eyes, "has he got any coffee?"

"There's one way to find out," Doyle replied.

Saying their goodbyes to Collins and Murphy, Bodie and Doyle headed out onto the main road. Doyle retrieved his bike from the bush he'd concealed it behind, pushing it along as he walked beside Bodie. He was dog-tired, utterly beat, with and aching head and muscles sore from a night spent in the icy outdoors and from lack of sleep over the last two nights. Bodie did not look any happier. They came out onto the main road, where Cowley waited for them next to his car.

"Good morning," their boss said, eyeing them with something almost akin to amusement, "anything to report?"

"It got bloody cold last night, sir," Bodie replied, a slight edge in his voice.

"I bet it did," Cowley nodded.

He produced a flask from behind his back, and Bodie suddenly looked hopeful. Cowley's driver, Paula, produced a couple of plastic mugs, and poured the two agents a hot drink. Doyle accepted his, wrapping his hand appreciatively around the warm mug. He shivered, and sipped at the hot coffee, savouring the warmth.

"Nothing really to report, sir," Bodie said, at length, "there's an old couple occupying the farmhouse but it could be just a front. The cellar door is locked from the inside – either the old man's very good at magic tricks, or someone's down there who doesn't want to be disturbed."

"We'll keep an eye on the house," Cowley nodded, "Meanwhile; I've got some bad news for you. Someone may have found out about your sources."

Bodie's head snapped up; suddenly alert. Doyle cocked his head to one side, regarding his chief warily.

"The local police were called to a disturbance at Sammy Brooke's apartment last night," Cowley informed them, "neighbours reported hearing a scream and a gunshot. He's dead – all the hallmarks of a professional hit, from the sounds of things."

"What about Suzy?" Bodie asked, with an edge of concern in his voice.

"No reports as yet, but I think you should check it out," Cowley replied, his tone hard.

Doyle opened his mouth to protest, caught the look on Bodie's face, and decided against it. His partner was clearly worried about his attractive blonde informant, and Doyle suppressed another yawn. He swallowed another mouthful of coffee, and winced, his throat sore – probably from the cold. Reluctantly throwing off the blanket, he shivered again, pulling on his gloves as he reached for his helmet.

"I'll meet you at the dockyards," he suggested, tiredly.

Bodie nodded wordlessly, already heading for his car. Cowley spared Doyle a glance.

"Don't worry 4-5; there'll be plenty of time for sleep later."

Doyle managed a tired half-smile in reply, as he pulled on his helmet. Getting stiffly into the saddle of his bike, he revved up the engine, kicked off, and sped away up the road. Cowley watched as Bodie's car followed at a similar pace, before he climbed back into his car.

"Back to HQ," he told Paula, "I want to keep an eye on things from there. Let's go!"

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It would have been no consolation to Bodie and Doyle to know that Karl Fulham was just as cold and tired as they were. However, Karl was secure in the knowledge of a job well done. He found a 'phone booth, and called his employers.

"The job's done. Yes. No, it won't be traced – I don't leave clues. No, no trace. Look, you hired me because I've never been caught – no record, not even a parking ticket, okay? I'm careful. They won't catch me. I'm ready to make the first hit, but there's a problem – I need more of the stuff. I can't go to the farmhouse – it's probably being watched. That's not my problem – I'm not coming all the way out to you in that bloody manor house! Fine…fine!"

Slamming the 'phone down, he left the booth and glanced around. It was still very early, although people were already out and about on their way to work. Karl got into his car, now a blue Fiesta, and cruised off down the street. His work was done for now – let CI5 exhaust themselves running around ragged for a while. He was off home to shower, shave and sleep.


	5. Chapter 5

Doyle's bike skidded to a halt right outside Suzy's warehouse. He revved the engine loudly for a moment, but no-one came out and there was no sign of life. He considered waiting for Bodie, but wondered if his partner's concern for his informant might set off that hot temper of his. Better to assess the situation first, Doyle reckoned. He quieted the engine on the bike, removing the keys, leaving it in plain sight for now. There was no sign of Barrie and Reggie, and the warehouse door was slightly ajar.

Doyle drew his gun, and crept up to the door. He peered inside, but could see very little in the half-light within. He edged the door open slightly, and slipped inside. The warehouse was massive, filled with stacked boxes and crates – a myriad of hiding places for any potential attacker, and Doyle felt horribly exposed. He considered his options as his eyes scoured the warehouse, ears alert for any noise. There was nothing. He took a few silent steps forward, before he saw something on the floor. He made out details – an arm, extended from behind some crates marked 'auto-spares', with no sign of movement. Doyle went in closer, weapon at the ready, checking the surrounding area before he took a look behind the crate. It was the heavy, Barry, big, strong, and very dead. A single bullet wound to the forehead was a clear testament to the cause of death. Nearby, Reggie was similarly deceased, an identical kill. Doyle threw caution to the wind.

"Hello?" he called out, "Suzy? Suzy, if you're in here, shout out – it's Doyle. I was here yesterday, with Bodie!"

There was no reply. Doyle reached for his R/T.

"4-5 to control," he murmured, "I'm at a dockside warehouse… there are two dead here and a third occupant missing. I'm trying to locate her now. Send out an ambulance to this address…"

He rattled off the location, and turned at the squeal of tyres from outside. He dived towards the door and dropped behind a crate, snapping his gun up to cover the entrance. He gritted his teeth, a little surprised to find his hands shaking slightly. He put it down to fatigue, keeping his eyes fixed on the door. He lowered his weapon when he saw Bodie enter, and stood up slowly. Bodie, seeing the movement, snapped around, gun drawn, and Doyle held his hands up in a gesture of surrender. Bodie sighed, pulling a face, and lowering the weapon.

"Place seems empty," Doyle reported, quickly, knowing that, like himself, Bodie was in no mood for jokes, "Barry and Reggie are dead – over there. I haven't found Suzy yet. There's an ambulance on the way."

Bodie nodded, his eyes quickly scanning the piles of crates and boxes.

"Suzy!" he shouted, suddenly, making Doyle jump slightly, "Sue, it me! Bodie! Are you here?"

The warehouse remained ominously silent. Bodie signalled to Doyle and pointed to a shaky-looking metal scaffolding staircase, leading up to the warehouse office. Doyle nodded his understanding, and the two of them moved forward in unison. Doyle stopped at the bottom and covered for Bodie as he bounded up the stairs. Doyle followed, moving up at a slower pace, walking backwards as he covered their rear and took a good aerial view of the interior of the warehouse. Nothing moved below them, and Doyle continued his ascent.

At the top of the staircase, Bodie found the office door slightly open. He listened carefully, but could hear no movement from within. With a sudden, savage outburst, he kicked the door in and lunged into the room, covering it with a sweep of his gun. Just as suddenly, his arms dropped to his sides, and his shoulders slumped.

"Ah, shit," he said, softly.

He took a few steps forward, as Doyle came up behind him and surveyed the scene. Suzy was sitting at the desk, staring at them with sightless eyes. Her long, blonde hair was marred with blood, and she was coldly, irrevocably dead, a single bullet wound in the centre of her forehead, just like her two guards downstairs.

"I'm sorry, mate," Doyle said, softly.

"Yeah…"

Bodie spared a last, forlorn look at the body of one of his favourite contacts, and then began to search the office. Doyle joined in, but they found nothing. They left the office, to find an ambulance crew and several uniformed police officers already dealing with the scene. Doyle directed them up to the office, before he and Bodie exited the warehouse. They stood outside, a cold breeze stirring up the dockside litter. Bodie gazed out across the river, while Doyle kept a respectful silence. Eventually, a uniformed cop approached them, a little nervously.

"Sir?" he ventured, as the two CI5 agents turned, "Forensics have arrived. They want to know who's in charge here…?"

Bodie was about to reply, when he heard a screech of tyres. Glancing up, he pointed at the new arrival.

"He is," he replied, as Cowley stepped out of his car.

The cop nodded gratefully and trotted over to the CI5 boss, while Bodie turned back to Doyle, and suddenly frowned slightly.

"You look like hell," he commented.

Doyle raised a half-smirk.

"Thanks; mate," he replied, rubbing a hand across his eyes, tiredly, "you're not exactly at your best either, you know."

Bodie managed a slight, rueful smile. Both of them were sporting about two days worth of stubble, their clothes rumpled and dirty, with pale faces and red-rimmed eyes. Bodie had noticed that Doyle was starting to sound a bit hoarse, and wondered if his partner was suffering more from the effects of a night in freezing temperatures.

"What say we grab some breakfast?" Bodie asked, rubbing his hands together quickly, "Bacon, sausage, egg, hash browns…"

"Ugh, stop," Doyle waved his hands, looking pale at the thought, "I'd rather head home for a decent kip."

Bodie was about to comment, when Cowley strode up.

"We found nothing at Sammy Brooke's address," he said, briskly, "I've got forensics combing through this place but it's going to take a while. I want you two to go home, get some sleep and get cleaned up. But keep your R/T's to hand – as soon as something comes up, you'll know about it."

"Yes, sir," the two of them chorused.

Heading for the car, Bodie spared Doyle a quick wave. Doyle returned the gesture, climbed onto his bike, and was soon out of sight.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Bodie wandered aimlessly around his apartment. He'd come home, put the central heating on, slept for a few hours, showered, shaved and drank copious amounts of strong, hot coffee. Feeling alive again, he paced his rooms like a caged tiger, itching for some action. Dressed in dark jeans and a black roll-neck sweater, he reflected on how nice it was to be warm again. Still, he wanted to be back out there, doing something to chase down the bastard who'd killed Suzie. He decided that it would be a good idea to see if Doyle had rejoined the land of the living yet. Grabbing his black leather jacket, R/T, wallet and keys, he locked up his apartment, bounded down the stairs, and went out to his car. Gunning the engine, it took him less than 15 minutes to get to Doyle's place, even after making one small stop on he way. He rang the buzzer to the gate, leaning on the button for far longer than necessary. Eventually, there was a muffled; "Hello?" from the speaker.

"Good afternoon, this is your friendly local Prince Charming," Bodie grinned, "Is Sleeping Beauty at home?"

There was a low growl, and a click, and the gate opened. Bodie jogged through the yard and up to the kitchen door, where Doyle let him in.

"What the hell are you doing here?" Doyle mumbled, running a hand through his hair as he closed the door.

"Such a friendly greeting," Bodie commented, lightly, "you sounded a little rough earlier, so I bought you some orange juice."

Doyle stared at the bottle proffered by his partner, then gave a snort of laughter and accepted it.

"Thanks," he said, opening a cupboard and taking out two glasses.

He poured them a drink each, and crossed over to the couch, dropping onto it heavily. Bodie followed suit, placing himself comfortably in an armchair as he regarded his partner. Doyle still looked very pale and tired, though clearly he had showered and shaved, changing into clean jeans and a thick, cream-coloured sweater. The record player in the corner was softly playing a classical piece Bodie didn't recognise, as he took a mouthful of orange juice.

"You still look like hell," he commented, at last.

"Thanks," Doyle replied, dryly, "Must be coming down with a cold or something. You look disgustingly chipper."

"I've slept, showered, shaved and drank far too much coffee," Bodie grinned, leaning back in the chair, "I'm on top of the world, old son."

He raised his glass in a toast, and drank the rest of the juice.

"Do you want some coffee to wash that down with?" Doyle asked, eyeing Bodie with vague amusement.

"Cup of tea would be nice," Bodie answered, "any word from Cowley or Control yet?"

"I've not heard anything," Doyle shook his head, getting off the couch with some effort, as he went to put the kettle on, "Ugh. I don't suppose you bought any painkillers with that orange juice?"

"Sorry, mate. Next time you'll have to give me a shopping list."

Bodie toyed with his empty glass while Doyle made the tea. Bodie kept turning things over in his mind, frustrated by the lack of leads on the case. He wanted to be out doing something now, chasing down the manufacturer of the poison, but the more rational part of his mind told him that he'd done a 36-hour shift and it was better to take the chance to rest now than feel shattered when they did get a break. Doyle soon returned, offering him a steaming mug of tea, which he accepted gratefully.

"Cheers," he said, raising the mug in a mock toast.

"Aye," Doyle replied, easing himself back down onto the couch, "God above. I don't think I'll ever feel warm again."

He shivered slightly, as if to emphasise his words, sipping at his tea and closing his eyes as he savoured it. Bodie eyed Doyle closely, hoping that his partner was not coming down with a cold; the last thing they needed was for either of them to be below par. Doyle opened one eye and fixed him with a glare.

"Stop staring at me," he muttered, as he scrubbed his face with the back of his hand, "it's distracting."

"Have you actually slept at all?" Bodie asked, suspiciously, "Have you got a girl around here somewhere…?"

"You're a priapismic monster. Have I mentioned this recently?"

"You didn't answer the question."

Doyle sighed.

"No, Bodie, there are no women in the place," he said, straightening up a little, "I think they'd take one look at me and run a mile at the moment."

"Yeah - standing next to you only emphasises my good looks," Bodie quipped, sipping at his tea, "speaking of which, you know that pub - The Stag and Pheasant? They've hired two new barmaids… Sylvia and Marcie, I think their names are. You'd like Marcie – she's into horses, I think. We could head down there this evening?"

"Sounds like a plan," Doyle replied, sounding less enthusiastic than Bodie would have liked.

Still, at least it wasn't an outright rejection. He was about to follow up the suggestion with an innuendo to spark further conversation, when his R/T bleeped. At last! Maybe there was some news; and maybe some action to go with it.

"3-7 here - go ahead."

"Alpha here," said Cowley's unmistakeable voice, "is 4-5 with you?"

"Affirmative," Bodie replied, "well, what's left of him, at any rate."

"I don't think I want to know," Cowley responded, dryly, as Doyle gave Bodie a dirty look, "I hope you two are well rested. I want you back at the farmhouse a.s.a.p. I've convinced the minister to give us the go-ahead to search the place. I'll meet you there."

"Brilliant. We're on our way – 3-7 out!"

He shoved the R/T into his pocket, and all but leapt to his feet.

"Come on, Sunshine, we've got work to do," he crowed, rubbing his hands together with glee.

Doyle sighed, and rolled his eyes at Bodie's irrepressible humour. Grabbing his thick brown leather coat, he followed his partner out of the house and into the car.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The drive was uneventful, and oddly quiet. Bodie kept giving Doyle concerned glances, but his partner seemed oblivious of the scrutiny, spending most of the journey dozing fitfully as Bodie's Capri roared out of London and into the Kentish country side. It was just starting to get dark when Bodie spotted Cowley's Rover parked at the side of the road. He pulled over, sparing a brief moment to nudge Doyle, who awoke with a start.

"Come on, mate," he said, in a low voice, "look alive. Work to do."

"Yeah," Doyle rubbed his hands over his face and through his hair, before he climbed out of the car.

Bodie crossed over to Cowley quickly. Murphy and Collins were there, looking tired out from a day's observation work. Hogan and Webster waited nearby, talking in low voices.

"Glad you could finally join us," Cowley commented, dryly, by way of acknowledgement, "Right. It's a simple enough job. Webster, you and Hogan take the front. You're to take care of the occupants – keep them out of the way. Murphy and Collins will follow you in and sweep the house. Bodie, Doyle; you two take the back entrance, through the kitchen, and get into that cellar. I'll come in through the front door and join you shortly. And, Bodie! No shooting unless strictly necessary, understood?"

"Understood, sir," Bodie replied, suppressing a sigh.

Cowley eyed him for a moment, and then nodded, as if satisfied.

"Good," he said, "go on, off you go."

Bodie glanced back at Doyle, who gave him a slight nod. Bodie returned the gesture, and then began a slow, steady walk down the long driveway to the house. Walking next to him, he heard Doyle suppress a cough, and spared him a glance.

"Don't worry, mate," he murmured, "we'll soon be done here."

Doyle did not reply, as he cleared his throat as quietly as possible. Very soon, the house came into view, looking much as it had the previous night, with a light on in the downstairs front room. Silently, Bodie gestured to Webster and Hogan to get into position, as he and Doyle slipped around the back of the house. Bodie waited for a few moments, R/T in hand. At a nod from Doyle, he pressed the buzzer on his R/T – the signal to move in. There was a simultaneous crash as both the front and back doors were kicked off their hinges, the back one splintering easily under Bodie's assault. He snapped his gun up, hearing a commotion from the front of the house; the old man shouting, his wife screaming incoherently, and Hogan shouting back a warning not to move. He blocked out the noise as he moved forwards, checking the room. A movement from the hallway beyond the open kitchen door caught his eye, and he glanced up, just in time to see Collins raise a hand in greeting. Bodie returned the gesture, leaving the rest of the house to Collins and Murphy. He and Doyle slowly approached the cellar door. Doyle took up position next to the door, leaning on the wall, gun at the ready.

"On three," Bodie murmured, "one…two…three!"

He gave the old wooden door a powerful kick. It buckled, but did not give; and Bodie swore. Two more kicks, and eventually the bolts on the other side gave way, and the door fell to one side and into darkness. Bodie and Doyle both took torches from their pockets, shining the light down the staircase revealed by the door. The steps were stone, roughly hewn, and clearly very old. The torches sent twin beams of light down into the darkness, showing a wall at the bottom, and little else. Bodie gestured to advance, and led the way down the steps. It soon became apparent that the steps turned to the right at the bottom, giving was to what was probably a fairly substantially sized cellar. He paused at the bottom, listening carefully. There was no sign of movement in the darkness. Bodie glanced back at Doyle, gave a quick nod, and then leapt around the corner. His torch swept the room in an arc, his eyes sweeping the room for any sign of movement.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, a heavy, stinging blow took both the gun and the torch out of Bodie's hands. Disarmed and blind in the dark, Bodie shouted wordless cry of alarm. He whipped around, seeing the light from his fallen torch and the bobbing light of Doyle's torch as he, too, came around the corner from the stairs.

"There's someone down here!" Bodie shouted.

"Show yourself!" Doyle's voice sounded hoarse in the dark, but the warning tone was clear.

Doyle shone his torch around the room, slowly, scanning for their invisible attacker. Bodie edged towards the torch he'd dropped, intending to find his gun. He reached the light, and picked it up, thankful it was still working. He trained it around, finding Doyle.

"Did he get past you?" Bodie queried, after a moment.

"No," Doyle shook his head, "did you see him?"

Bodie was about to answer when, suddenly, illuminated by his torch beam, a figure loomed up behind Doyle, clutching what looked to be a length of wood. Without his gun, Bodie felt suddenly powerless.

"Ray! Look out!" he cried, but it was too late.

Doyle began to turn, but the figure brought the lump of wood down on the back of his head. Doyle went down heavily, out cold. Bodie leapt forwards as the figure ran for the stairs.

"3-7 to all units!" he shouted into his R/T, "suspect escaping from the cellar! Get after him!"

"I see him!" replied Murphy's voice, "Leave him to me, Bodie!"

Bodie dropped his R/T back into his pocket, and, using the torch, managed to locate a light switch on the wall. Overhead, several bare bulbs flickered to life, surprisingly bright, forcing Bodie to squint in the harsh light. As his eyes adjusted, he scanned the room quickly. Clearly, nobody else was in hiding down here… it was also clear that they'd found their lab… well, what was left of it. Satisfied that there was no immediate danger, Bodie transferred his gun to his left hand, and crouched down beside Doyle. His partner was unconscious on the floor, but breathing evenly. Bodie grabbed the shoulder of Doyle's jacket and rolled him onto his back.

"Ray!" he called, patting his friend's face, "Come on mate, no time for napping…"

He trailed off, frowning, his hand resting lightly on Doyle's face. Carefully, he laid his palm across Doyle's forehead, and was surprised to find him feverish to the touch.

"You must be feeling worse than I thought, mate," he murmured.

Doyle responded with a weak groan, and Bodie withdrew his grip, patting Doyle on the shoulder as he slowly came to, wincing, raising one hand to his forehead.

"Welcome back," Bodie greeted him, as he helped him up into a sitting position against the wall, "stay here a minute."

Too concussed to respond, Doyle did as he was told, slumped against the wall, as Bodie began a quick search of the room.

Bodie had finished his preliminary sweep, when footsteps on the stairs warned him of an approach. He drew his gun, and then quickly holstered it when Cowley entered the cellar.

"Report," he ordered, and then noticed Doyle sitting on the floor, "what on earth happened to you?"

"Someone tried to wrap a length of two-by-four around his head," Bodie grinned, pointing to the offending piece of wood, "did Murphy get him?"

"Aye," Cowley nodded, "no ID as yet, but we'll take him in for questioning. We've had to call an ambulance – the old woman's hysterical and the old man is harping on that if he talks someone will come and kill him. I'd guess they've been living with these terrorists for at least three months or more."

"This must be the lab where the poison was manufactured," Bodie agreed, glancing around the room, "looks like they got wind of us and left."

Cowley nodded in agreement. The cellar looked like a college chemistry lab, with stainless steel tables that shone under the light. However, all of the equipment, whether glass or metal, had been very thoroughly destroyed; Cowley presumed this was an attempt to destroy any evidence that may have been on the equipment.

"The only thing missing are the chemicals that must have been used," Bodie commented, nudging a broken jar on the floor with his foot, "my guess is that they took what they needed – like all the samples of the poison – and made a break for it."

"Agreed," Cowley nodded, "the old man said that there were three men here at any one time, but a lot of 'heavies' as well. They left shortly before you got here last night."

"Shit," Bodie swore, "we just missed them. They were tipped off – but how?"

"Presumably, you were followed," Cowley said, sharply, "by the same person who picked off your sources."

Bodie scowled.

"I never saw anyone," he argued.

"Get this into your head, Bodie! There are people out there just as good as you and Doyle!" Cowley snapped, clearly frustrated with the situation, "Now instead of sitting around here, get out there and chase this down. The old man told me that he heard the men discussing a place 'down the road'. It could be a back-up or secondary lab. Go and do some driving, see if there are any local viable targets. We'll stay here and get the forensics boys in."

"Sir," Bodie said, obediently.

He crossed over to Doyle, offering a hand. Doyle accepted, and Bodie hauled him to his feet, steadying him as he staggered, almost falling. Cowley watched them with a baleful eye, but did not pass comment as the two agents left the room, heading back out of the farmhouse. Cowley waited a moment more, and then, uncharacteristically, swore loudly and slammed a hand down on the nearest table. They'd been so close! So close…


	6. Chapter 6

Bodie threaded his way through local uniformed cops, past the flashing blue lights of the ambulance, and out onto the dark, shadowy drive, one hand tightly gripping Doyle's jacket as he practically held the other man upright. Doyle's breath came in short, sharp gasps, that occasionally gave way to coughing fits. Eventually, they reached the car, and Bodie felt much better being inside the vehicle and away from the wind. Doyle hunched over in his seat, head in his hands, wheezing slightly. Bodie could see his partner was shivering, but despite the chill of the night, he was sweating as well. There was a growing worry nagging at Bodie; Doyle did not look well at all.

"Doyle…?" he began, a little uncertainly.

"Shouldn't we be going?" Doyle asked, hoarsely.

"Are you alright? You don't look too good."

Doyle opened his mouth to respond with a sarcastic comment, and then decided it was too much effort.

"Just a bit of a cold," he murmured, at last, leaning back in his chair, "that's all. Just a bit of a cold…"

Bodie frowned, but did not press the issue. Turning the key in the ignition and switching on the powerful headlights, he turned the car into the road, and set off at a steady pace, keeping his eyes open for one of Cowley's 'local viable targets'.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

After an hour or so of doing twenty miles per hour down the dark roads looking for any building that might house a lab, Bodie was tired, bored, and cold. Cowley had radioed in to tell them to keep patrolling the area; Hogan and Webster were out on the road as well, as were Murphy and Collins, all covering different directions within a forty-mile radius of Moat Farm. Cowley's theory was that the manufacturers of the poison needed somewhere secluded to work, away from the general public, while their agents in the city had undertaken the specific testing of the poison and perhaps reported back the results.

Bodie was beginning to get a little tired of the whole thing, frustrated by the lack of progress and the repeated problems they were encountering. He glanced across at Doyle, and sighed. His partner had long since fallen asleep, and Bodie had left him alone. Feeling somewhat alone, Bodie leaned forward in his seat; no, it was just a shadow, not a hidden entrance to a road that led to the secret lair of a crazed poisoner. He snorted to himself, and pulled the car over to the side of the road. Picking up the car radio mike, he keyed it open.

"3-7 to all units," he said, quietly, "has anyone got anything to report?"

"I'd like to report that it's cold and dark and I'm tired and I want to go home," Murphy replied, sounding as peeved as Bodie felt, even through the static.

Bodie shook the radio, frustrated – already they were heading out of range of the radios.

"I second that," Hogan added, her voice heavily blurred by static, "this is a wild goose chase. I can hardly see a thing in this darkness."

"We'll give it another hour," Bodie sighed, reluctant to face Cowley without a result, "and then we'd better head home. We could always get a couple of choppers out here in the morning."

"Agreed," Hogan responded, "see you back at base."

Bodie closed the channel, and dropped the mike back into its cradle. He stretched his tired muscles, and looked across at Doyle again. Even in sleep, his friend did not look well, and Bodie regretted the decision to stay out for another hour, when Doyle should clearly be at home in bed. Turning his attention back to the road, Bodie pulled out and settled back into a slow cruise, scanning the road carefully, and looking out for any nearby building. A movement in the headlights made him swear and slam the brakes on. The car jerked abruptly, throwing him forward in the seat. Doyle snapped awake with a yelp, momentarily disorientated. Illuminated by the headlights, a fox regarded them coolly, before slinking into a hedge.

"Bloody hell," Doyle rasped, wiping sweat from his eyes with a shaking hand.

"You okay?" Bodie murmured, as he released the break and tooled the car forwards again, "Sorry about that."

"Sure," Doyle settled back in the seat, rubbing at his eyes, "where the hell are we?"

"God knows," Bodie said, grimly, "but another hour of this and then we're going home."

"Good… wait… what's that?"

Bodie slowed to a stop again, and followed the direction in which Doyle was pointing. He could just make out a gap in the roadside hedge. Easing the car forwards, sure enough, Bodie found that the road gave way to a dirt track. Slowly, the car rolled and bounced up the track, as Doyle radioed in to the other two cars to say that they were checking out a possible location. Eventually, after what seemed like an interminably long time, the Capri crunched its way onto a gravel drive, revealing a large country house estate. The car headlamps lit up a broken fountain in the centre of the driveway, and Bodie suddenly realised that what he had taken to be a decadent mansion was in fact a derelict ruin. Leaving the engine idling to keep the headlights on, he pulled up in front of the house, and climbed out of the car. Doyle followed, and for a moment the two agents simply stood in the dark, staring up at the crumbling façade of the ancient ruin. Most of the glass was gone from the windows, most of them boarded up with large 'danger' and 'keep out' signs plastered across the front. Bodie privately wondered who could possibly casually walk in on a place so isolated. There were no lights, no noise, and no sign of life from within.

"It's quiet as the grave," muttered Bodie, "you think this could be the place?"

"There're probably cellars," Doyle pointed out.

Bodie nodded. It made some sense; keeping true to form, as out of sight as possible… he walked up to the front door, and found that it swung back with a loud squeal of rusted hinges. He glanced back at Doyle, and sighed.

"What do you reckon?" he asked, "If we go in now, we've got no back-up. It could take Murphy and the others hours to find us. If we leave, anybody in there could do a runner. If we wait until daylight – we've got the same problem."

"It was a near enough miss last night," Doyle replied, "I don't want to face Cowley to report we made the same mistake again."

Bodie nodded in agreement, and felt the hairs on his neck stir with anticipation. He drew his gun and led the way inside.

The interior of the building was dark, dank and as derelict as the exterior. Once-expensive wallpaper now hung, yellowed and peeling, from crumbling, damp-stained walls. The floors were bare boards, some of them broken, most of them rotting. Bodie trod with care, but each step creaked loudly on the distressed wood. Bodie found himself in a large hallway with a grandiose staircase up the middle, branching off to each side at the top. Most of the stairs had collapsed in on themselves, and the rest did not look stable. Bodie decided against risking going up in the dark. He and Doyle shone their torches around, finding little of interest in the mouldering old mansion. They moved throughout the ground floor with practiced skill, finding that in several rooms the floors had caved into the cellars.

"I don't think they're here," Bodie said, at last, in disgust, "place like this? The rooms are uninhabitable, the upstairs inaccessible and the cellars are probably flooded."

"Outbuildings," Doyle replied; his voice little more than a croak.

Bodie suppressed an amused smirk.

"Wouldn't you rather be home in bed?" he enquired, sweetly.

Doyle gave him a venomous look. Bodie shrugged.

"Masochist," he muttered, but nonetheless headed for the front door.

Stepping back out into the very early hours of the morning, Bodie and Doyle again scanned the weed-strewn driveway with their torches. A large, brick-built shed, possibly an old stable, stood nearby, and Bodie gestured to it. Doyle nodded, albeit reluctantly. They crossed over, to find that the shed appeared in no better repair than the house, the brickwork old and crumbling. However, the addition of a shiny-looking padlock to the front bolt belied the air of disrepair and abandonment. Bodie took his pick-lock from his pocket and attacked the lock. Within minutes, it clicked open in his hands, and he removed it quickly. Pulling open the rickety wooden door, he revealed that the stable had apparently found new use as a garage. A large, anonymous white van stood within. Bodie shone his torch at it. The vehicle was incredibly dirty, rendering it pretty inconspicuous, particularly as mud totally obscured the number plate. Bodie peered at the registration through the muck, and committed it to memory. Doyle worked his way around the van, and tried the back door. It opened easily.

"Bodie…"

Glancing up from his scrutiny of the plates, Bodie straightened up and walked around to join his partner. Doyle was shining his torch into the back of the van, his pale features grim. Bodie added the light from his beam, and let out a low whistle.

"Christmas come early," he murmured.

The back of the van was filled with crates and boxes. Several of them stood open, revealing glass jars, test tubes, vials, pipettes, and, in one case, a multitude of syringes, all nestled amongst straw and packing foam. Bodie picked up a discarded crowbar, and levered open another box, revealing several jars of chemicals he did not recognise.

"Pretty damning evidence, don't you think?" he commented, raising one eyebrow as he glanced back at Doyle.

For his part, Doyle managed a slow nod. He leaned against the side of the van, watching as Bodie opened up some of the other boxes, riffling through the contents quickly. Doyle raised a hand to his aching head, feeling horribly weak. His hand shook as he rubbed his eyes distractedly, trying to get his tired vision to focus. Eventually, Bodie jumped down from the back of the van.

"Jackpot," he said, with grim satisfaction, "chemicals, lab equipment, medical supplies and even some handguns. Some boy scout kitted this van out to be prepared."

Doyle nodded carefully, leaning heavily against the side of the van. His legs felt weak and shaky, as if they no longer belonged to him.

"I think…" he began, unsteadily, "I think… we're going to need… back-up."

"Ray?"

Bodie took a step forwards, concern etched into his frown. Doyle looked as though he could barely stand up; he was pale, sweating and shivering at the same time. Bodie holstered his gun quickly. Keen as he was to catch the people responsible for six horrific deaths and the murder of Suzy, he could do nothing with his partner in this state.

"We'd better get out of here," he decided, quickly, "get back to the car and call in some back-up. No cock-ups this time."

Doyle simply nodded, slowly. He turned, as if to leave, and Bodie lunged forwards, catching Doyle's arm as he swayed unsteadily.

"What the hell's the matter?" he asked, concerned.

"Something…weird…going on," Doyle replied, hoarsely.

Half-supporting Doyle, Bodie made his way back to the car. Doyle all but collapsed into the passenger seat, gasping for breath. Bodie picked up the radio, hailing for any unit within range.

"3-7 to Control and all units; this is an emergency! If anyone is in range, please respond!"

Bodie listened to the answering crackle of static, repeating his call several times. He spared a glance across at Doyle, who seemed to be either asleep or unconscious. Keeping hold of the radio and maintaining a litany of calls for assistance, Bodie used his free hand to reach over to check on his partner, first resting the back of his hand on Doyle's forehead, and then picking up his wrist for a pulse. For his part, Doyle simply stirred, and let out a slight moan. Bodie scowled, a tight knot of worry forming in his stomach. Doyle was running a high fever, his pulse worryingly fast and irregular.

"This is 3-7 to anyone in range; for God's sake, this is an emergency! Please respond!"

Bodie held his breath as a sudden burst of static erupted from the speaker.

"3… this is 6…please rep… your pos… over."

"This is 3-7; please repeat, over!"

"3-7…6-9… your position…"

"6-9! Hogan! Can you hear me?"

"Bodie," the signal was gradually improving; now doubt Hogan and Webster's car was speeding towards them, "can just about…you. What's your…over?"

Bodie quickly relayed the directions on how to reach the old country house, as he reached into the back seat, pulling a blanket off the floor and trying to arrange it over Doyle.

"We're on our way," Hogan responded, the signal coming through much stronger now, "I'll relay the directions to Murphy and Collins – they're on their way back to base but back-up should be with you soon from Moat Farm."

"Thanks, Hogan," Bodie said, gratefully, "3-7 out."

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Hogan was true to her word. Within fifteen minutes she and Webster were on the scene. Bodie got out of the car, relaying a swift situation report.

"The house is empty – derelict to the point of collapse," he gestured towards the buildings in question, "there's a van in the shed. It's full of chemicals, scientific equipment and weapons. No sign of any lab – my theory is they've perfected the poison, dumped the van with the excess equipment here, and picked up some other vehicle to go on to another location."

"London, do you reckon?" Hogan asked.

"Possibly," Bodie allowed, grimly, "any word from Cowley?"

"We relayed your position to Murphy, who's heading back to control," Hogan replied, as Webster began a slow patrol along the front of the empty old mansion, "Once he's in range of Control's radio frequency he'll call for immediate back-up – hopefully we can have a team out here in about two hours."

"Two hours…" Bodie repeated, casting a glance back at his car.

"Problem?" Hogan queried, raising an eyebrow.

Bodie scratched his jaw thoughtfully. Worrying thoughts cascaded through his mind, but outwardly he remained cool and calm.

"Can you hold the fort here?" he asked, at length, "I need to get back to control…"

Hogan glanced around and shrugged.

"Sure," she replied, "Webster and I can handle it."

Bodie nodded his thanks, and climbed back into the car. Hogan watched as the Capri executed a neat manoeuvre around the broken down fountain in the middle of the drive, and roared away into the approaching dawn. Webster wandered over to join her, suppressing a yawn.

"What was all that about?" he asked, laconically.

"God knows," Hogan shrugged, "looks like we're in charge of this one, mate."

Webster grinned.

"Far out," he nodded, "shall we take a look around?"

Hogan flashed him a quick smirk.

"After you…"

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Bodie settled back in his seat as he drove through the country lanes, witnessing the second sunrise he'd seen in as many days. He was tired, but his brain buzzed with possibilities. Keeping one hand on the steering wheel, he reached over, grabbed Doyle's shoulder, and shook him as hard as he dared.

"Doyle! Wake up!"

He spared his partner a glance as Doyle stirred and groaned, muttering feverishly.

"Ray!" Bodie said, urgently, "Come on!"

Eventually Doyle blinked his eyes open, with a low moan of protest.

"What…?" he murmured, puzzled, "What's going on?"

"The poison," Bodie responded, quickly, "Doyle, have you had any contact with the poison?"

Doyle looked at his partner in confusion.

"No," he croaked, in reply, "no more than you…"

Bodie was not satisfied.

"I'm taking you to the hospital," he growled, through gritted teeth.

"No," Doyle protested, "my flat. Go there…"

Bodie glared at his partner, worry making him frustrated.

"Why?" he demanded, "come on, Doyle. This is no ordinary cold…"

"That man," Doyle muttered, as his eyes began to slip closed, "the man poking around my stuff…"

He trailed off, and Bodie frowned, trying to work out what Doyle was talking about. He vaguely recalled Doyle telling him about someone trying to steal his bike… the Capri roared towards the rising sun as Bodie wrestled with worry and doubt. He was almost convinced that, somehow, Doyle had been poisoned – whether deliberately or accidentally he did not know. Whether the people they were chasing were also now chasing them, again, he didn't know – but he was sure, now, that someone had been following them, or, worse, predicting their moves.

The powerful Capri ate up the miles with Bodie's expert hand at the wheel. Fields and trees gradually gave way to brick and concrete as Bodie wove through the early-morning traffic, ignoring shouts and the blaring of horns of the drivers unhappy with the near-misses. He glanced several times at the road signs pointing out the all-too-familiar route to the hospital, and then ignored them. He drove on through the grimy London streets until the car screeched to a halt outside Doyle's place. Bodie reached across and began the rifle through the pockets of Doyle's jacket, causing him to stir.

"What the hell are you doing?" he groaned.

"Looking for your keys," Bodie grunted back.

Doyle fended him off weakly, before reaching into his pocket and handing them over. Bodie scrambled out of the car, opening the passenger door to help Doyle out of the car. Bodie steadied him as he staggered, and then caught Doyle's arm. Ignoring the murmur of protest, Bodie half-carried, half-dragged Doyle up to the front door. Wrestling with the lock, he got the door open and the two of them stumbled inside. Bodie lowered Doyle onto the couch. Doyle stretched out, his strength all but gone. Bodie climbed the stairs in quick leaps, dragging a blanket off the bed, hauling it down the stairs and quickly throwing it over Doyle. For his part, Doyle merely watched Bodie through half-closed eyes, too spent to move or speak. Bodie silently paced the small flat, his agile mind turning over the possibilities and then dismissing them. If it was the poison that had made Doyle so ill, then it had either happened at a scene, in which case Bodie should, logically, have been poisoned as well. Therefore, it could not have happened while Doyle had been with Bodie; nor was it likely that Doyle had been a random target of attack. The only place where anything could possibly have happened was here in the apartment. Bodie went to the 'fridge and began to pull out the contents, laying everything out on the kitchen sides. He was so engrossed in his task that he did not hear the light footstep on the floor behind him.

"Bodie…" it was Doyle's weak, rasping call that made him turn.

He leapt aside just in time to avoid the gun that swung down hard, aimed for where the back of his head had been. His attacker swore as the weapon slammed heavily into the sideboard, a ringing blow that jarred the weapon from his grip and sent groceries flying. Bodie lashed out but the other man recovered quickly and blocked the blow. The attacker slammed a punch into Bodie's gut, forcing the air from his lungs. Bodie doubled up and charged forwards, sending the man crashing over backwards. He straightened up, gasping, and let out a muffled grunt as the man simply got up and charged at him again. Bodie landed two hefty blows to the man's jaw, seeing him topple sideways. Thinking his opponent was finished, Bodie went in for a final blow to seal the victory, and realised too late that it was a feint. The man suddenly kicked out in a very neat jujitsu move, combining a judo throw. His kick took Bodie's legs from under him; the throw sent his head crashing down onto the kitchen worktop. Bodie felt the sickening thud of the impact before his vision faded, and he collapsed to the floor.


	7. Chapter 7

Karl straightened up, gasping, reeling from the fight. These CI5 guys were good; he had to give them that. He retrieved his gun, and holstered it. From a jacket pocket, he produced a roll of duct tape, using it to bind Bodie's wrists and ankles tightly, after depriving the agent of his gun and frisking for other weapons. He laid the gun and the knife he found on the worktop, and then heard a noise behind him.

"Drop the gun."

Doyle had tried to get up to help Bodie, but the poison Karl had used on him the night before last was doing its work. Doyle lay on the floor, breathing heavily, glaring up at Karl. He'd managed to draw his gun, and now lay on his side, holding the weapon in both hands, fighting to control the trembling in his limbs. Karl grinned at him in response.

"You're dying, Mr. Doyle," he told him, contemptuously, "Don't you remember me?"

Doyle frowned. Beads of sweat stood out on his forehead and stung his eyes, but he did not dare move to wipe them away.

"You… you were here the other night…" he murmured, as realisation dawned.

"That's right," Karl nodded, crouching down to meet Doyle's gaze, "when I punched you, I had a syringe. You took the full dose. Let's see… it been, what? Over 24 hours since then? How long do you think you can last? Another day? Maybe two?"

Karl moved closer, enjoying the torment of his quarry.

"I've seen how this poison works," he purred, "I've watched, first hand, as people died – like you. Feverish, shaking; they pleaded for help, for water, for death…"

Suddenly, without warning, Karl jerked himself backwards and kicked out, hard. The gun was thrown out of Doyle's grip, weak as it was, and Karl was upon him in a moment, pinning him down, his eyes bright.

"I'm going to enjoy watching you die," he promised.

Restraining Doyle as he had Bodie, Karl then went out to the road. He'd swapped his recent Ford Fiesta for a non-descript small white van. He reversed the van right up to the gate that led to Doyle's place, then got out and opened the back doors, effectively obscuring any view of his actions from the passers-by. First, he lifted Bodie by the arms, and dragged him, still unconscious, into the back of the van. Next was Doyle's turn, just as unceremoniously transported from home to the waiting vehicle. As Karl slammed the doors shut, he smirked to himself, wondering if he was the first person to ever have managed to take not one, but two CI5 agents as hostages. Climbing into the driver's seat, he hummed a little ditty to himself as he turned the van out into traffic, and drove away carefully.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Where the hell are Bodie and Doyle?"

It was to Hogan's credit that she did not wilt in the face of Cowley's anger.

"Bodie said he was heading back to Control," she replied, calmly, "he asked me and Webster to take care of the scene. He and Doyle had checked the place out and Bodie seemed to have something he wanted to do…"

"Like what?" Cowley demanded.

"He didn't say, sir," Hogan replied, patiently, "if you don't mind my saying, sir… he seemed, well… worried about something."

"Did Doyle say anything?"

"I didn't see him," Hogan shrugged, "he was already back in the car when we arrived. I only spoke to Bodie. He left in a bit of a hurry."

Cowley took a breath. He had to assume that Bodie, in abandoning the scene to two junior agents, had found a lead worth chasing… if only for Bodie's sake, Cowley hoped that this was indeed the case.

"Very well," he allowed, at last, "you and Webster take care of things here. Report in if you find anything."

"Yes sir," Hogan nodded, smartly, and left quickly.

Cowley turned back to his car, and climbed in the back. His driver stayed silent, awaiting instructions. For his part, Cowley said nothing, as he picked up his in-car 'phone and called through to Control.

"Control, this is Alpha. Have 4-5 and 3-7 reported in with you?"

"Negative, Alpha," replied a feminine voice, "no word from either unit for several hours."

"Patch me through to 3-7," Cowley ordered.

There was a long silence lasting for several minutes, before the voice came back, sounding faintly puzzled.

"No response from either 3-7 or 4-5," was the report, "security checks show all alarm systems still active at 3-7's apartment, but 4-5's are deactivated. No reply on the home 'phone line or R/T summons."

"Send over a unit to investigate," Cowley rapped out, "God help them when I find out what the hell they're playing at… I'm on my way over there now."

"Yes, sir," Control said, hurriedly.

Cowley dropped the 'phone, as Paula, the driver, revved up the powerful engine.

"4-5's residence," he snapped, "and fast!"

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Even with Paula's skill, it was still just after midday when Cowley finally arrived on the scene at Doyle's home. He found a uniformed officer guarding the open gate, and flashed his ID badge quickly. The officer waved him through into the yard, where CI5 agent Murphy stood looking pale and exhausted. Cowley, not for the first time, lamented the fact that his department was so under-staffed that his men were often required to pull double or triple shifts when something big was going on. And nothing would put more strain on the department than having two missing men, as the situation began to reveal itself fully.

"Report," Cowley ordered, as Murphy crossed the yard to join him.

"I heard Control call for an available unit to check in on 4-5's place," Murphy replied, as they headed towards the open door to the kitchen of the maisonette, "I was in the area so I took the call. I attended to find the yard gate open. The garage is locked, but the kitchen door was wide open. I went in and searched the place. No sign of 4-5 or 3-7, sir. Although something bloody strange happened here…"

"Bloody strange, indeed," Cowley remarked, assessing the scene.

The kitchen was a shambles. It appeared that someone had emptied the cupboards and 'fridge of all consumable contents, and then strewn it all over the floor and worktops. Spilt milk from a shattered bottle was slowly curdling on the floor, and Cowley skirted around it carefully. More worryingly, on the sideboard, someone had carefully deposited, amongst the mess, two weapons; Cowley instantly recognised Bodie's browning and Doyle's handgun, along with a flick-knife, a pen-knife and a couple of cigarette lighters. The kitchen gave way, open plan, to the living area, from which a staircase led to the bedroom and bathroom. Cowley stood in the middle of the lounge, eyeing the mess. A duvet had been discarded on the floor, as if dragged downstairs from the bedroom and then dumped. Cowley turned on Murphy, who was surveying the scene with mixed degrees of concern, sadness and weariness.

"What do you make of it?" Cowley asked, at length.

"Either Doyle needs a new house-keeper," Murphy replied, "or there was one hell of a fight in here. Forensics guys have gone through the place – one set of prints turned up on both guns and on the door, and the gate - all the same unidentified man. We're running the prints through the computer now, but it could take time."

"Are you trying to tell me that one man was able to take down both Bodie and Doyle?" Cowley did not know whether to be shocked, angry or dubious.

He opted for a mix of all three, as Murphy shrugged helplessly.

"That's how it's looking, sir," he replied, "It's possible he instantly incapacitated one and then overpowered the other – a surprise attack, sir?"

"It beggars belief," Cowley scowled, "how could one man take down two top agents? For that matter, how the hell did he find them here?"

"We did theorise that 4-5 and 3-7 were followed at one stage, sir," Murphy reminded him, carefully, "perhaps the attacker had his eye on this place?"

"Possibly," Cowley allowed, "it's definitely connected to the poisonings – Doyle and Bodie must have gotten too close to something. Re-trace their steps, Murphy! Find out everything they did, everywhere they went, everyone they spoke to, over the last three days, since the last two victims were found. And move fast! If our poisoner stays true to form, we can probably expect another victim in a few days – or this thing will hit the market and then… well, God knows what will happen. So get to it!"

"Yes sir," Murphy nodded, tiredly, and was gone.

Cowley put his hands in his pockets, taking one last look at the wreckage of Doyle's home. He sighed, wearily. Like his agents, he was tired, and frustrated by this poisoner who was apparently running rings around his department. He nodded, briefly, to the white-suited forensics experts who were still picking their way around the property, and left the building. He, too, had work to do.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Doyle, robbed of his gun, knife and lighter, struggled against the tape around his wrists. He was weak, exhausted, and shaking; his head pounded mercilessly and there was a deep chill setting into his limbs that made them feel leaden and useless. Beside him, Bodie was still out cold, and Doyle had thus far been unable to rouse him. They had been in the back of the van for some time; driving at no great speed, their captor seemed determined to avoid attracting attention. Doyle had tried kicking the doors open, but their captor's threat to simply shoot Bodie had dissuaded him from this course of action – for now. The back of the van was empty, and clean – no handy tools or sharp objects. Doyle was working at stretching the tape and loosening it from his wrists – a tough job at the best of times, and he mentally cursed himself for his own weakness, his anger at the situation the only thing keeping him conscious. Doyle listened as the outside noises of traffic gave way to quieter sounds – the roads became rougher, too, and he had the sinking feeling that they were heading back out into the bloody countryside again. He groaned, audibly, as the van bounced over a particularly deep pothole, and he heard the driver let out a low chuckle.

"We'll soon be there, mates," the man called, over his shoulder, "just hold tight…"

Outside of the city limits, the van began to speed up, roaring down the quiet roads. Doyle was forced to give up on freeing himself from the tape, as he lay in the van, fading in and out of consciousness. Eventually, a familiar, somewhat concerned voice brought him back to wakefulness.

"Ray?"

He opened his eyes, having to blink several times to focus.

"Bodie," he acknowledged, "thank God. How's the head?"

"Bloody sore," Bodie admitted; his features still pale, "what the hell's going on?"

Doyle shrugged; weakly, disgusted to find even the effort of conversation was too taxing.

"An enforced stay in the country, I reckon," he replied, wincing as pain shot through his muscles.

God, how he ached… He was aware that Bodie was saying something, but did not quite register what it was.

"Sorry?" he murmured.

"I said; are you alright?"

Doyle was spared the trouble of an explanation by a low laugh from the driver.

"Oh, Mr Bodie," the driver said, his tone almost remonstrative, "haven't you worked it out yet - a clever man like yourself?"

"Who the hell are you?" Bodie growled.

The driver spared a glance over his shoulder at them.

"Mr Bodie… I'm the man who poisoned your friend over there."

Karl's only mistake was that he'd tied Bodie's hands slightly too loose – not so that the tape could be undone, but enough that with some effort Bodie managed to hitch himself up into a sitting position as Karl was driving. Working his shoulders forwards, Bodie managed to slide his arms down to his knees. With an immense show of flexibility, he leaned forwards, hooking his bound wrists past his feet, and then sat back, breathing lightly from the exertion as he flexed his fingers. His hands were now tied in front of him instead of behind, and this meant a multitude of possibilities… he offered Doyle a quick, grim gesture to brace himself. Doyle, still curled up on the floor of the van, nodded slowly, his expression one of comprehension. Bodie silently turned around, kneeling behind Karl. Then, with a sudden, vicious lunge, his hands were over Karl's head, pulling the tape tightly across his throat. Taken completely unawares, Karl choked, clawing at his throat, at Bodie's hands, arms, face, anything he could get a grip on to try to release the throttling hold Bodie had on him. The van slewed crazily out of control; Bodie caught a glimpse of hedgerow on one side of the road, then there was a squeal of tyres as Karl's thrashing foot caught the brake.

The van careened across the road, hit the grassy verge, bounced over a mound, and toppled sideways into a ditch, coming to rest on its side. Still Bodie clung to Karl, until he heard the man's final, choking sound, and he went limp. Even so, Bodie held on for a few minutes more until he was sure the man was dead. Releasing him, Bodie was able to squirm over the back of the seat, and was relieved to find a knife in the man's pocket. Flicking open the blade, he soon cut through the tape around his wrists and ankles. He also robbed the man of a handgun from a shoulder holster, but a thorough search of the body revealed no ID and no other weapons. Bodie scrambled over the corpse, opened the driver's side door, and dropped to the ground. He surveyed the wreckage of the van, scowling when he realised there was no way to right it and get it roadworthy again. He worked his way through the mud and long grass to open the rear doors and crawled back inside, alongside Doyle. Cutting through the tape, he pulled Doyle into a sitting position and looked him straight in the eye.

"What the hell did he mean by that?" he demanded, "You've been poisoned?"

Doyle hesitated, and then nodded, slowly.

"I didn't… wasn't aware, at the time," he said, falteringly, "It was him who was at my place the other night… thought he was trying to steal my bike…"

Bodie nodded, vaguely recalling Doyle's fury that someone would dare to try to touch his prized bike.

"When he hit me… he said he was holding a syringe… didn't even feel it…"

Doyle trailed off, shaking his head, not knowing what else he could say. Bodie frowned at his partner's drawn, pallid features, etched with pain from the poison consuming him slowly from within. Bodie glanced around. The van was going nowhere; there was no traffic out on these roads and buildings were few and far between. Their only hope was to get out and start walking, but he doubted Doyle would make it very far. Doyle seemed to be reading his thoughts.

"Leave me here," he rasped, grabbing Bodie's sleeve, "take the gun – leave me the knife…"

"No deal," Bodie shook his head, "besides, I might need the knife."

"I'm dying, Bodie!" Doyle snapped, evidently losing patience, "I'd rather do it quickly than sit around like this for the next two days…"

Bodie realised what his friend was suggesting, and grabbed his jacket with venom that surprised even him.

"Don't you dare talk like that!" he growled, "our labs are working on a cure as we speak. You know they must be close by now if they haven't done it already! You're going to be okay, Ray. You're damn well going to be okay…"

He trailed off, and slowly released Doyle's jacket. The two of them regarded each other warily for a moment. Bodie then offered out his hand, and Doyle took it slowly. Bodie helped Doyle to climb out of the back of the van, and supported him as they climbed the bank together. Bodie slung Doyle's left arm across his shoulders, supporting him, as they stood by the side of the road for a moment.

"London's that way," Doyle said, at last, pointing back the way the van had come from.

Bodie, who had spent most of the journey unconscious and had no idea how long or how far they had travelled, let out a bark of a laugh at the idea of walking all the way to London. Still, the road might well lead through a town or village of some kind. Nestling the gun into his shoulder holster, he tightened his grip on Doyle, and the two of them began the long, slow walk towards help.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was, Bodie reflected, vastly unfair that, for the third night in a row, he was stuck out in the freezing countryside, miles from anywhere, and totally out of touch with base. It was small consolation that, by now, Cowley would be aware that they were missing, alternatively worrying about them and promising grave recriminations when they finally did present their sorry states at the offices. At least Bodie did not feel too cold; over the last few miles, he had been supporting more and more of Ray Doyle's weight, gritting his teeth at the sound of his friend's rasping breaths and slight gasps of pain every time a tremor passed through him. One such tremor suddenly hit, causing Doyle hiss with pain and stumble slightly. Bodie, caught off balance, tripped as well, and the two of them fell to the floor, lying on the cold tarmac of the road, gasping for breath. Bodie, muscles aching and protesting from the long hike, eased himself up onto his elbows, reached over, and pulled Doyle onto his back.

"Just… just five minutes," Doyle waved one hand weakly, and Bodie nodded, exhausted.

Lying down, stretched out on a tarmac road running through a vast expanse of fields, Bodie reflected distantly on the absurdity of the location. Neither he nor Doyle had a jacket or coat between them, with only one gun with six rounds in it, a knife, and their ID cards which their attacker had not bothered to confiscate. At least they could identify themselves to any potential helper – if they could find one. He rolled over onto his back, and stared up at the sky, and suddenly let out a short bark of a laugh.

"What's so bloody funny?" Doyle asked, his voice sounding horribly weak.

"The stars are out," Bodie replied, absently, "if you were my girlfriend, this would be positively romantic."

"Thank God I'm not, the poor bitch. She'd freeze to death."

Bodie glanced over, and grinned at Doyle. The smile faded as he watched his partner lying there, eyes closed, struggling for breath and sweating, even in the chill of the night, clearly in a lot of pain.

"Ray," he said, at last, insistently, "come on, Ray – we've got to keep moving."

Doyle opened his mouth to protest, but then apparently decided against it. Bodie got to his feet, and then, reaching down, grasped Doyle's hands and pulled him to his feet. He held onto him until he was steadied, and then, draping Doyle's arm across his shoulders, Bodie took his weight, and they resumed their slow, painful progress once more.

Overhead, the moon was full and bright, the one thing that Bodie had to be grateful for at the moment, as it was their only source of light as they followed the road towards wherever it led. They had seen only one car, and, despite Bodie urgent waving, the vehicle had simply veered around them and sped off into the night, with Bodie swearing uselessly after it. They stopped for breaks every hour or so, but Bodie did not think they were covering even two miles per hour at their slow, unsteady pace. Still, he did not dare push Doyle any harder; the other man was all but dead on his feet, and Bodie suppressed a shudder at the unfortunate turn of phrase. Bodie himself was absolutely shattered; the bruise on the back of his head from when he'd been knocked out burned painfully, and he was still feeling the after-effects of a pretty severe concussion. The cold sapped his strength, and walking was becoming more and more of an effort. He tried to recall how far and how long that they had been walking, and concluded that it must have been since some time last Tuesday. They had encountered nothing else but that one car – sheep out in field observed their slow passage, and night creatures called to one another, but there were no sign of any farm houses, villages or any other hint of human imprint, besides the unending road and the two men who staggered along it at a painfully slow speed.

Bodie stumbled on a pothole in the dark and landed, hard, on his knees, with a hiss of pain. Doyle fell with him and lay sprawled, face down on the tarmac, his breath rasping painfully. Bodie, on his hands and knees, sucked in a deep breath, wondering if he was going to be able to get back up again. He could barely lift his head. He tried to crawl forwards to check on Doyle, but his last vestiges of strength were failing. He managed a groan, before he finally succumbed to pain, exhaustion and cold. He gradually slid forward, and was soon unconscious on the road.


	8. Chapter 8

Some time later, Bodie gradually came back to his senses as he felt someone nudging his face insistently. He felt warm breath on his cheek, and groaned, trying to remember where he was and what he'd done last night. Most importantly, he tried to dredge the girl's name from his memory so he'd say the right thing when he finally opened his eyes. Suddenly, a wet tongue made an exploratory pass of his ear, and he groaned again, raising his hands in self-defence.

"What the fuck…?" he muttered.

Cracking one eye open, he found himself gazing into a par of large, dewy brown eyes that were regarding him closely.

"Hello," he said, a little doubtfully.

The black Labrador gave a low, growling bark, and Bodie ventured an attempt at sitting up. His head looped in sickening surges, and he groaned aloud, pressing one hand to his face, the other braced against the tarmac. He was utterly freezing and his clothes were damp – a light frost decorated the greenery around him, and he realised, with numb surprise, that it was morning. He had spent the night unconscious on a road he did not know the name of in a place he could not work his way out of. The dog whined and pawed at him playfully.

"Scout!" shouted a voice, "Scout! Here, boy! Where are you? Scout…"

The dog, 'Scout', replied with a high-pitched bark, the sharp sound of which sent a stab of pain through Bodie's sore head. He tried to tell himself that he'd had hangovers that were worse than this concussion, but could not quite recall any of them at the moment. He glanced up, stiffly, as a figure came striding though the hedgerow at the side of the road, and stopped in surprise. Bodie regarded the newcomer with detached interest. The man was mid-fifties, with a weather-beaten face and gnarled hands. He was wearing a dark green sweater under a long brown coat, with dirty brown trousers and a large peaked cap atop his straggly grey hair. He sported a short, scruffy beard that was mostly grey, and carried a half-cocked shotgun. He stared at Bodie, and then signalled to the dog.

"Scout, leave it," he ordered.

The dog sat obediently, tail thumping on the tarmac.

"Hi," Bodie ventured, forcing the words passed dry, cracked lips, "my friend and I are in a spot of bother…"

As he spoke, the man crossed over to Doyle and crouched down. He rolled Doyle over onto his back, checked for a pulse, and patted his face. Suspiciously, he glared at Bodie.

"How'd you boys get out here?" he asked, "Must have been a hell of a party."

"Something like that," Bodie replied, with a dry laugh, "is there a phone nearby?"

"First things first, boy," the man – probably a poacher – replied, "You'd better get off this road. My cottage isn't far off."

Bodie glanced down at his legs, wondering if they would work well enough for him to maybe, possibly, stand up. Deciding that just sitting where he was would do no good, he forced his cold, stiff muscles to obey, and he managed, quite shakily, to stagger to his feet. The poacher regarded him balefully, before removing the shells from his shotgun. He dropped them into his pocket, and handed the weapon to Bodie.

"Here," he said, "don't lose it."

Wordlessly, Bodie took the weapon, and could only watch appreciatively as the poacher reached down and took Doyle by the wrists. With a powerful heave, he pulled the unconscious man upright, and lifted him easily over his shoulder. Bodie watched as the poacher then sedately set off into the tree line, followed by Scout the dog. With no other options available, Bodie followed him away from the road.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The man's cottage turned out to be a ramshackle affair hidden away in the woodland, looking for all the world like the guy had built it himself out of whatever bits of corrugated metal, crumbling bricks and old wood he could find. The poacher, with Doyle still slung easily over his shoulder, simply pushed open the front door – not locked, Bodie noted – and stepped inside.

"Come on in, boy," he gestured, and then raised his voice, "Wife! Come on, you old mother, where are you? Wife…!"

"God give me strength, Henry, will you keep your… oh, my…"

The reprimand trailed off as the woman who stepped out of the kitchen caught sight of Bodie, and her husband lowering Doyle onto the sofa. The poacher's wife was a dumpy, fifty-something woman with grey hair in a messy bun atop her head, wearing an apron, her hands encased in rubber gloves that indicated some sort of housework was in progress. Bodie noted that, despite the scruffy exterior, the interior of the cottage was immaculate and neatly furnished, if a little cramped.

"Hi," said Bodie, feeling a little stupid and wishing his brain would thaw out enough to produce a coherent thought, "Sorry to intrude…"

"Scout found 'em on the road," the poacher, evidently Henry, informed his wife as he straightened up, removing the shotgun from Bodie's unresisting grip, "they must have been to one hell of a party."

The woman eyed Bodie, slightly suspiciously.

"Drunk?" she guessed.

"Concussed," he replied, with a slight, rueful grin, "my friend and I were…attacked. Do you have a 'phone we could use? My friend really needs medical attention."

"Sit down, lad," Henry waved Bodie into an armchair, "Dorothy, get the man a blanket and get the damn fire lit, woman."

Dorothy nodded, quickly, and bustled off to do as her husband bid.

"There's no 'phone here, lad," Henry said, as Bodie took a seat, "Attacked, you say? You weren't trying to get to the main house, were you?"

"Main house?" Bodie repeated, vaguely.

"About four miles across the fields," Henry gestured vaguely in the right direction, "or, if you prefer to take the long way, about ten miles by the way of the road you were on. The previous owner was a real gentlemen – wouldn't have no road built across his land, you see. Real shame he died, what, four months ago? The new owners haven't got no respect for the place."

"New owners?" Bodie was aware that he was beginning to sound like a parrot, but it was starting to penetrate his tired brain that this could be important to the case.

"Louts," the man said, in disgust, "I used to be the gamekeeper there but they kicked me out of my cottage – had to move into this old poacher's place. They said they needed privacy – I reckon they're up to something – loads of vans, coming and going, always at night…"

"You've kept watch on the place?" Bodie asked, suddenly more interested.

"A little," Henry shrugged, still wary of the stranger, "hunting's best at night – got to keep food on the table. Mainly self-sufficient here, and the old landowner left me and the missus enough money we should have been comfortable enough…"

"Why didn't you move? Buy a place, maybe?"

Henry snorted contemptuously.

"These woods are my home," he replied, dismissively, "we stay. I go up to the village every week or so for groceries."

"How far is it to the village?" Bodie asked, quickly.

"About six miles, if you follow the road," the man replied, "boy, you're in no state for that walk. You can rest here a while."

"I want to go and look at this house," Bodie replied, stubbornly.

He made as if to stand, but his legs wouldn't support him and it was only because Henry grabbed him that he didn't fall. Dorothy reappeared, and quietly wrapped a blanket around his shoulders. Bodie hesitated, ready to throw it off, but exhaustion won over and he sat back down again. Dorothy nodded approvingly, and then crossed over to the couch, tucking another blanket over Doyle.

"What's your interest in the house?" Henry asked, curiously.

Bodie shrugged, and plumped for honesty.

"I'm…sort of with the police," he replied, producing his ID badge, "name's Bodie. I'm with CI5. He's Doyle. We were on a case but…things went wrong. We think the men at the house might be involved."

"Drugs, you reckon?" Henry's eyes lit up with interest.

"Maybe," Bodie said, cagily, not wanting to give away too much information, "but I need to get to that house."

"I'll take you there in a bit," Henry offered, "Don't go too close, though. I tried to go back to check on the horses and one of the louts took a shot at me!"

Bodie hid a grin at the former gamekeeper's indignant tone. He glanced up in surprise when a steaming mug of tea appeared in front of him, and he glanced up at Dorothy.

"Thanks," he said appreciatively.

Dorothy nodded wordlessly, offering him a small smile. Bodie sipped at the hot tea, wincing slightly at the amount of sugar that was in it, but decided against comment. He could not remember when he had last had anything to eat or drink and the tea was very welcome. He watched, warily, as Dorothy bent over Doyle, fussing like a mother hen.

"Your friend looks right poorly," she said, at last, "has he got the flu?"

"Something like that," Bodie replied, evasively, "I need to get him to hospital."

"No 'phone here, love," Dorothy replied, cheerfully, "there'll be one down at the main house, though – if you can get into our old cottage."

Bodie caught the slightly sad note in her voice; it was clear Dorothy missed her former home keenly.

"We'll see," he agreed, not wanting to commit to anything.

He did not know if there was anything suspicious happening at the manor house, but it just… felt right. Like he'd finally got the break the case needed. It made sense that the house would have been the destination of the man who'd attacked him and Doyle back at Doyle's place. Bodie watched as Dorothy easily took to the role of nurse, fetching blanket and pillows, chattering away under her breath as she bustled around, tending alternatively to Doyle and topping up Bodie's tea. Henry set about cleaning his gun, collecting extra shells, mumbling all the time. Bodie sat amidst the activity, blanket across his shoulders and nursing a hot mug of tea. From somewhere, sandwiches appeared on a plate on his lap, and, in something of a trance, he ate them, already wondering what was going on back in the city. Cowley was probably tearing his hair out by now… a harsh bout of coughing interrupted his train of thought, jolting him out of his reverie.

"Steady on now, dear," Dorothy murmured, soothingly, "here, drink this."

Bodie slowly got to his feet, letting the blanket slip to the floor, as Dorothy helped Doyle into a sitting position, handing him a glass of water.

"Thanks…" he murmured, grimacing and glancing around, "where am I?"

Bodie could not help but grin.

"A small cottage in the woods," he replied, "the three bears have gone out, but this is Dorothy, Henry and Scout. Welcome back to the land of the living, Goldilocks."

Doyle gave Bodie a look that was half-glower, half-confusion. Bodie patted his shoulder gently, and felt his blood run cold when he felt the tremors racking the other man's body. Scout, as if sensing something was wrong, padded over, whining, and rested his head on Doyle's knee. Absently, Doyle stroked the dog's head.

"What's going on?" he asked, at last.

Bodie provided a quick briefing as to what had happened, conveniently forgetting to mention that they had spent most of the night unconscious on the road. Doyle nodded as Bodie outlined his plan to check out the nearby manor house, as Bodie suggested that it was probably where their now-deceased abductor had been taking them.

"You're not going alone," Doyle rasped, moving as if to stand.

"You're in no state to walk, mate," Bodie replied, pushing him back down all too easily, "besides, Henry and Scout are coming with me."

At the mention of his name, Scout let out a soft 'woof' and thumped his tail on the floor. A shudder passed through Doyle, and Bodie caught his shoulders, pushing him back to lie down on the couch. He knelt down, grimly, mind working hard. It had been at least two nights ago that Doyle had been poisoned; Bodie privately wondered if his friend could make it through another. Suddenly, there was a hand on his shoulder, and he looked up to meet Dorothy's warm smile.

"Go on," she said, "you boys head out and do what you need to do. I'll look after your friend here."

"Thank you," Bodie said, his voice catching slightly in his throat.

He coughed, swallowing the tight knot of worry, and stood up as Henry came back into the room, a grim expression on his face and a hard set to his jaw, shotgun looped over his right arm.

"Follow me, lad."

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Bodie was secretly impressed by the speed with which Henry the former gamekeeper covered the ground. He moved quickly and silently, clearly now as skilled a poacher as he must have been as a gamekeeper. Eventually, they reached edge of the woodland, and, at Henry's signal, Bodie dropped to the ground. Slithering forward on his stomach, Bodie assessed the layout and quickly took control of the situation.

"Where's the cottage?" he whispered.

"There," Henry pointed.

Bodie followed the line of the old man's gnarled finger, and saw a small cottage nestled some distance away from the large bulk of the main house. It was overgrown with ivy and, from a distance, looked empty. There was a van parked on the driveway of the larger house, but Bodie could not, from here, see any sign of life.

"I need to get in closer," he muttered, "stay here, okay?"

Henry growled something, but hung back obediently. Bodie followed the line of the trees until he was behind the cottage. He drew his gun, as he thought quickly about his options. He decided that speed was of the essence. Taking a couple of deep breaths, he suddenly leapt forwards, and sprinted down to the cottage, clearing a wide stretch of open grass-land. He skidded to a halt by the back door and froze, breathing lightly, listening for any sign of movement from within. He heard none. Accordingly, he tried the back door. He was surprised when it opened easily, and cautiously pushed the door open, all the way back. The kitchen was light and airy, but there was a smell of damp and it felt like the house had been empty for some time. Bodie made a quick sweep and found the property empty. Grateful for small mercies, he found the telephone in the hall.

"Come on," he growled, picking it up.

His spirits lifted considerably when he heard the familiar whine of the dial tone, and he began to dial quickly. He heard the click of the connection.

"This is Control; please identify."

Bodie offered up a small, silent prayer of thanks, and his voice was rock-steady as he spoke.

"Control, this is 3-7. Put a trace on this call immediately."

"3-7! It's about time. Tracer activated."

"Good. Patch me through to Alpha."

There was a short pause.

"Bodie," came the familiar Scottish accent, "where the hell you, and what in the hell's going on? Is Doyle with you?"

"It's a long story, sir," Bodie replied, quickly, his eyes darting around the hall as he stayed alert for any interruptions, "Control is tracing the call – I don't know where we are. Doyle's nearby – sir – he…he's been infected with the poison."

"What?" Cowley sounded surprised; not a tone Bodie was used to from his stern boss, "when?"

"At least two nights ago," Bodie replied, glancing over his shoulder, "he was attacked at his flat but he says he didn't realise what had happened. He's in a bad way… we were jumped at his place the other night; I'm a bit sketchy on what happened next…"

Bodie trailed off, and realised how little sense he was probably making. He decided to try again.

"Sir, I'm in a former gamekeeper's cottage at a substantial country estate – I have no idea where," he reported, quickly, before Cowley could speak, "the gamekeeper found us, err… out on the road. He's told me there are new occupiers in the mansion – and a lot of night-time activity. It could be something unrelated, sir, but it looks like it could be where our driver was heading to before we escaped."

"We're getting something on the trace," Cowley replied, "stay on the line, 3-7. I'm putting you on hold – you'll be patched through to my car in a moment."

"Yes, sir," Bodie replied, tiredly.

Bodie waited for several minutes, before Cowley came back on the line.

"Stay put 3-7; I'm on my way by helicopter," Cowley snapped out, over the background roar of the engine of his Rover, "we've called in the army bio-hazard boys; they're on their way to secure the area, just in case this is the real base of operations for our poison manufacturers. Our prisoner from Moat Farm told us little but enough to know the Farm was only a contact point for the city agents. You may have found the main base, so stay put!"

"Aye, sir," Bodie replied, dully.

He was vaguely aware that things were gradually coming to a close, but he had a feeling that there was more to do yet. His head ached with exhaustion and the vestiges of concussion. He waited for several minutes of silence again, before he was put back through to Cowley on the helicopter radio mike.

"We'll be with you in about forty minutes, 3-7," Cowley reported, "in the meantime; I want a full situation report."

Bodie obliged by recounting the events of the previous day and night. He was so preoccupied with recollecting the details that he did not hear the front door open slowly. Suddenly, a shot rang out, and Bodie dropped the 'phone, falling flat and taking cover behind a small table. He snapped his gun up, and then froze. Three men stood over him, all clutching high-powered rifles and wearing distinctly unfriendly expressions.

"Who the hell are you?" growled one of them.

"Just… a tourist," Bodie replied, "just wanted to use the 'phone. Sorry for the trouble…"

"Tourists don't carry handguns," the man snapped, "now drop it."

Bodie complied, lowering it slowly. From the corner of his eye, he could see that the 'phone had been blown to bits by the bullet, and he swore silently in frustration. He placed the gun on the floor, and straightened up, raising his hands slowly and assessing the odds. The man who appeared to be in charge turned to his companions.

"Search the area," he snapped at one of them, "This guy probably came from the old poacher's shack out in the woods – go and turn the place over - fast."

"There's nothing there," Bodie lied, smoothly, "I'm on my own – came out here for a few days hunting rabbits."

"With a .45 handgun?" the leader leered, "pull the other one, mate. Charlie! Handcuff him to the radiator."

One man, clearly 'Charlie', stepped forwards. He shouldered his rifle, and made a big show of searching Bodie thoroughly, depriving him of his knife and his ID card, before pulling a set of cuffs from his pocket. The other man inspected the ID card with feigned disinterest.

"CI5, huh?" the man looked Bodie up and down, "You're not all that. Hunting rabbits my arse…"

Bodie braced himself to jump as Charlie advanced, but the man in charge kept his gun aimed unwaveringly at Bodie's head. The third man had long since disappeared off to the old shack in the woods, and Bodie cursed himself for having been caught so easily.

"You must be one of the guys Karl was bringing in," the man commented, as Charlie deftly handcuffed Bodie to the radiator, "poor bastard. We know what you did to him – he was a mate of mine."

The menace in the voice was unmistakeable, but Bodie was not fazed by it.

"Who the hell are you people?" he demanded, trying to play for time.

"None of your flaming business," the man who was not Charlie replied, "now shut up or I'll have you …"

The man got no further; it had something to do with a close range shotgun blast that flung him backwards out through the front door. Charlie froze, as Henry advanced slowly, the second barrel of his gun loaded, cocked and ready to fire.

"Let him loose," Henry ordered, "and drop that high-tech toy of yours."

Charlie complied, and Bodie quickly ensured a change of places, handcuffing him to the radiator and pocketing the keys. He picked up the rifle, pleased to finally have a decent weapon at his command. He searched through the dead man's pockets and found a spare ammunition clip; a similar search revealed that Charlie had one too. Straightening up, Bodie met Henry's gaze.

"There's a chopper on the way here," he stated, quickly, "my people are coming. They're bringing in some pretty heavy reinforcements. The bad news is that one of these guys is on the way to your place…"

"Dorothy?" Henry's face screwed up in concern.

"And Doyle," Bodie nodded, grimly, "My boss – Cowley – is on his way. I need you to wait here and meet him. Tell him where I've gone!"

Henry made as if to protest, but Bodie gave him a hard look.

"I've saved your ass twice already, boy," Henry reminded him.

"Third time lucky," Bodie grinned.

Hefting the rifle, he set off at a run from the house; his quarry having a good ten minute head start. Henry eyed the captive Charlie, and then picked up the dead man's rifle. He examined it carefully, and then fetched a chair from the kitchen dining area.

"You and me, boy," he murmured, "we're going to wait right here… and if you so much as make a peep… well, I'm sure you get me, don't you, boy?"

Sitting next to his master, Scout gave a low growl. Charlie nodded, slowly. Things were not looking good from where he was sitting. Not good at all…

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Doyle lay on the couch, fighting to stay conscious. He was vaguely aware of Dorothy pottering around in the background. Occasionally, she would sit beside him and bathe his forehead with a cloth soaked in cold water, but it did little to help. There were, he reflected, easier ways than this to die. Better ways, surely. He always figured he'd, maybe, get shot in the line of duty – a fatal bullet wound. Stabbing was also a possibility; as was getting blown up, or killed in a car crash. Not slowly being consumed by a slow-acting poison while lying in a shack in the middle of some remote woodland. Slowly, despite a murmur of protest from Dorothy, he managed to pull himself upright, though the effort was exhausting. Every muscle burned with pain; his head pounded and his throat was dry and sore. Dorothy regarded him worriedly, dabbing the sweat from his forehead with a cloth.

"Poor lamb," she said, with a click of her tongue, "you're a right poorly thing, aren't you?"

Doyle tried to speak, but could not summon the energy required. Dorothy patted his arm.

"You rest here," she told him, "I'll pop the kettle on…"

She bustled away, and Doyle leaned back on the couch, closing his eyes and almost wishing that the torment would end soon. He had never felt so ill in his life, which made sense in an odd sort of way, he supposed… the feverish ramblings in his mind came to an abrupt halt when he heard a faint click by the door. Bodie…? No. It wasn't. Doyle knew that on an almost instinctive level. Danger… the feeling of imminent danger pervaded his befuddled senses. Summoning a previously unrealised source of strength, he pulled himself to his feet. There was a knife on the table, a sharp knife Dorothy had used to cut cheese to make some sandwiches when Bodie had been here… Doyle seized it and turned, hanging onto a chair for support, wheezing already with the exertion of standing. There was a sudden pounding at the front door, and Dorothy came in from the kitchen.

"What on earth…?" she began.

The rest of the sentence was lost in her wordless scream as the door flew off its hinges, and a large, broad-shouldered man stood in the doorframe. The short moment it took for the man's eyes to adjust to the gloom inside was the moment Doyle needed. He flung the knife with unerring accuracy, and it buried itself up to the hilt in the man's neck. Doyle fell to one side and pulled Dorothy to the floor, covering her as the man let out a gurgling cry and rifle-fire strafed the room in his death-throes. China plates on the wall shattered; ornaments exploded and brick dust erupted from the walls as the bullets hit random targets. Just as suddenly as it had begun, the action was over and silence fell. Gasping, Doyle raised his head slowly. Shaking, unable to stand, he crawled away from Dorothy, who lay sobbing on the floor. He could hear pounding footsteps from outside, and suddenly, there was Bodie, standing in the door frame, staring at him in wide-eyed amazement. Doyle raised an exhausted grin as unconsciousness beckoned, blissfully pain-free.

"What took you so long?" he rasped.

He did not hear the response, as the darkness won out, and he knew no more.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Bodie stepped over the corpse blocking the doorway and crouched beside Doyle. Relieved to find his friend still breathing, he glanced up. Dorothy was nearby, on her knees and sobbing. Bodie attempted to raise a reassuring grin.

"It's okay, love, it's all over," he told her, "Why don't you go and put the kettle on, yeah? Henry should be back soon…"

Sniffing back her tears and still too shocked to speak, Dorothy simply nodded. Bodie straightened up, and set to work. He dragged the corpse out of the house by the ankles, dumping it nearby. He came in and pushed the door closed, noting that the latch was damaged and there was no way to properly shut it. He abandoned it as it was, surveying the bullet-ravaged interior of the shanty-style cottage, before turning his attention to Doyle. Gently, he leaned down, and, with some effort, managed to lift him onto the couch. Doyle remained entirely unresponsive.

"Ray," he murmured, nudging his partner's arm, "come on, Ray. Please. Please wake up."

There was no response. Doyle's face was deathly pale, sunken, shadowed with pain. Bodie's gaze fell upon his hands; his breath caught in his throat when he caught sight of the all-too-familiar blister-like lesions forming on the skin. For the first time, the reality of the situation hit him like a bullet; Ray Doyle was dying.


	9. Chapter 9

Bodie felt for a pulse and eventually found it; weak, ragged, but a pulse nonetheless. Distantly, he heard a helicopter passing overhead, but he paid it little attention. It seemed to him that any assistance was too little, too late. A feeling of utter despair descended over him like a cloud as he sank to the floor. Burying his face in his hands, he barely registered a gentle hand on his shoulder. He raised his head as Dorothy crouched down next to him, her eyes red-rimmed from crying but her expression one of concern.

"It's… it's not the 'flu, is it?" she asked, in a choked-up voice.

Bodie could only shake his head, slowly. Dorothy stood up, pulling a discarded blanket over Doyle and resting her hand on his forehead.

"He's burning up," she said, quietly, "is there anything we can do?"

Bodie shook his head again, feeling totally spent. His head dropped forwards into his hands despondently as he wondered what the hell he was going to do now. He did not look up when he heard footsteps pounding towards the cottage from outside; the crash of the door as it flew back on his hinges did not even make him start. Dorothy gasped and swung around.

"Oh, Henry! Thank God you're safe!"

"Come here, wife…"

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Cowley stepped to one side as the old gamekeeper embraced his wife affectionately. His eyes swept the room and took in the scene. He'd seen the corpse outside, and quickly noted the bullet holes in the walls and the mess inside. Bodie was slumped on the floor, face hidden, while Doyle lay all too still on the couch…

"Bodie!"

The snap in Cowley's voice was enough to raise the agent from his trance. Bodie looked up, his mouth hanging open slightly as he stared at his boss. Cowley saw the pallor of his face, with red-rimmed eyes and there was slight stubble of growth along his jaw; Cowley wondered just what the hell had been going on. Bodie looked all but done-in, and that was not something Cowley was used to seeing in one of his top agents. Slowly, Bodie got to his feet, and Cowley entered the room fully. Flicking his gaze down to the couch, he drew in a sharp breath.

"Doyle?"

Crouching down, he quickly checked the younger man for a pulse, and was immensely relieved to find it still there. He was horribly, horribly pale, and his breathing was shallow and ragged, but he was alive.

"Thank God," Cowley murmured.

He heard Bodie shift behind him, and he glanced up; the torment in Bodie's eyes was terrible to behold, but his face remained deadly calm.

"I want the bastards who did this," Bodie eventually rasped out.

"Later," Cowley gestured, shoving his hand into his pocket, and rooting around quickly, "ah – here it is."

He pulled out a syringe, turning away from Bodie's surprised frown as he quickly began to roll up Doyle's sleeve.

"Sir…?"

"The antidote, Bodie; the labs synthesised the antidote. Let's just hope we're not too late…"

Hope flared within Bodie, as he watched as Cowley located a vein and slid the needle in quickly. Doyle did not react at all and Bodie wretchedly wondered if he had been given hope only to find out that they were too late. Cowley withdrew, and, in a surprisingly tender gesture, rolled the blanket back over to cover the younger agent.

"Now, it's up to him," Cowley said, grimly, "stay with him, Bodie. I've got to get back to the manor – don't worry, I'll arrange an airlift to hospital."

"Yes, sir," Bodie managed to say, "Thank you, sir."

Cowley spared his agent a small smile, and stepped out of the cottage. He paused, glancing at Henry and Dorothy.

"I'm sorry about the damage to your home," he said, "I'll see to it that you're compensated."

Still a little stunned at the turn of events, the couple could only nod and murmur their thanks as Cowley turned and strode off back towards the main house.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Cowley was true to his word. About half an hour after he had left, a small, lightweight helicopter came in to land outside the cottage. Two paramedics leapt out, carrying a stretcher between them. Bodie could only watch as they took Doyle out of the cottage on the stretcher, and lifted him into the chopper.

"Mr Bodie?" one of them asked, "Mr Cowley said that you're to come with us."

"Sure…"

Bodie followed obediently. One of the medics climbed back into the pilot's seat while the other escorted Bodie aboard and closed the side door behind them. Bodie was ushered into a seat and told to fasten his seatbelt. He complied, and sat, silent and still, watching as the young medic worked on Ray; fitting an oxygen mask, setting up an IV line, and muttering medical jargon to himself as he carried out his job with a skilled proficiency. Bodie felt the helicopter begin to lift, and they were soon on their way to the hospital and back to civilisation.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Bodie had always hated hospitals. It was the one part of his job that he loathed; that he seemed to wind up hanging around them so often; in equal measures a patient and a visitor. Each time he came, though, he prayed it was not his last visit; because every time he came, he was alive; or the person he visited was alive. _Doyle's alive, _he kept the thought running through his head; _Ray's alive, and he'd going to be fine_…

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The hours passed slowly. Bodie lost track of them. He did not know where Doyle was. He barely even knew where he was. He sat in a corridor on an uncomfortable plastic chair next to a vending machine. He'd tried the tea, and then moved onto the coffee – both tasted the same – equally vile. An hour or so after his arrival he'd been examined by a doctor who had mumbled something about severe concussion, adding words like 'exhaustion', 'hypertension' and 'malnourished'. As such, Bodie had gone and bought a ham sandwich from the cafeteria. It was still in his pocket, somewhat stale. A clean, white bandage was wrapped around his head, after he'd had six stitches in the back of his head from the fight with the bloke at Doyle's place. Eventually, the lights dimmed as the hospital slipped into 'night' mode. Staff changeovers occurred without Bodie really noticing; he simply sat there, and his world consisted of a plastic chair, a corridor, a vending machine and the same thoughts rolling around his tired, aching head.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was morning. Bodie knew this because a nurse had politely suggested he might consider going home. He just stared at her until she went away. Later, a doctor came by. He had also suggested that Bodie might like to go home and get some rest. Bodie asked about Doyle. The doctor had just shrugged.

"He's not my patient. I can't tell you what I don't know."

Bodie thanked him, quietly, and stayed where he was. Time continued to tick by. Then, Bodie felt it. The sudden change in the atmosphere… a sudden, commanding presence… an instinctive impulse ordered Bodie's tired body to rise to his feet before his brain had quite caught up with what was going on. He turned.

"Hello, sir," he said.

George Cowley spared him a long, hard look.

"Have you been here all night, 3-7?"

Bodie considered this.

"Yes," he said at last.

Cowley nodded slowly.

"Is there any word on Doyle?"

"Nobody will tell me anything…"

"We'll see about that. Follow me."

Bodie obeyed. Cowley strode through the corridors, somehow knowing where to go; Bodie had a feeling his boss had 'phoned ahead.

"Sir," he ventured, as they walked, "What happened at the manor house?"

"We managed to take just three prisoners," Cowley replied, sounding annoyed at what he perceived to be a poor catch, "the rest had cyanide capsules; we didn't realise until too late. We're still sifting the place for evidence but we identified two of the dead as KGB scientists. For now, you're off the case."

Normally, Bodie would have argued. He would have fought to stay on and see it through to the end. But for now, there was something more important on his mind… he watched as Cowley strode up to the reception desk and he realised, with a jolt, they were in the Intensive Care ward. He should have expected that… Cowley exchanged words with the nurse on the desk. She was shaking her head. Cowley raised his voice. She fetched another nurse. Cowley showed his ID. The nurse fetched a doctor. Bodie followed as Cowley was escorted through quiet wards and isolated rooms, listening to the constant background beeping and humming of equipment; somewhere nearby, someone was crying, though Bodie could not see where. He came to a halt as the doctor stopped outside a closed door.

"Only one visitor in the room at a time," he said, officiously.

"He's with me," Cowley replied, his tone brooking no argument.

The doctor sniffed his disapproval but made no comment as he opened the door and went inside. Cowley followed, and then stepped aside to let Bodie in.

The first thing Bodie noticed was how quiet the room was. A heart monitor bleeped a slow, steady rhythm while an oxygen tank hissed and creaked above the bed. Doyle lay in the middle of a mess of wires and tubes, covered with a white sheet. He was so pale it was hard to tell where the sheet ended and his face began, save for that shock of brown curls on the hospital pillow. Bodie swallowed the knot in his throat as he stuck his hands into his pocket and gazed at his partner.

"I… I thought he'd got the 'flu…"

His voice caught in his throat and he looked away quickly when Cowley glanced at him. Cowley glanced at the figure on the bed, and then back at the doctor, whose name was Dr. Conner.

"Report," he ordered.

The doctor coughed and fidgeted, clearly unhappy with the demand.

"He was definitely infected with the poison," Connor said, at last, "The antidote was, for the most part, successful. You got to him in time to prevent permanent brain damage or organ failure. However, he was severely weakened by malnutrition and dehydration as well as exposure to the elements; at the moment we're fighting a battle with secondary infections his body can't cope with after the stress of the poison. He's suffered massive shock to the system and at the moment it's touch and go."

"What are his chances?"

Dr Connor shrugged in an almost careless gesture that made Cowley scowl.

"I'd say there's about a thirty percent chance of survival," he replied, bluntly, "his body went through too much. He's at a high risk of coronary failure. His chances are improving by the hour, though. When he first came in I didn't expect him to make it through the night…"

"Yes, thank you, doctor," Cowley interrupted, quickly, mindful of Bodie still listening in, "This man is still part of an ongoing investigation into the poisonings – as such you can expect CI5 to be around here a lot for the next few days. I trust I have your full co-operation?"

Dr Connor curled his lip slightly, but nodded slowly.

"Excellent," Cowley nodded, "Bodie?"

Sensing that he was dismissed, Dr Connor checked a few wires and readouts and then left the room, as Bodie turned to face his boss.

"It would be a good idea if you went home and got cleaned up," Cowley said, gently but firmly, "report back here this evening. I want to know the minute Doyle regains consciousness…"

Bodie hesitated. A thirty percent chance of survival… could he ever forgive himself if Doyle died here, alone, while he, Bodie, was asleep at his flat? Cowley seemed to read his thoughts.

"Go home, 3-7, and sleep. That's an order."

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Bodie returned to the hospital that evening feeling a bit more like his own self again. Several hours of sleep, followed by a long, hot shower, a shave and a good meal could do wonders for a man. He strode into the hospital, and was almost surprised to find Hogan coming the other way.

"Greetings," Hogan said, coming to a halt and meeting his gaze, "how's things?"

"Well, I never thought I'd see the day when the Cow would order me to take the day off," Bodie quipped, "what news from the manor house?"

"The rumour mill has it that it's a base of operations for a KGB cell operating here in the UK," she replied, lowering her voice conspiratorially, "They'd been developing this poison over the past couple of months at the farmhouse you guys raided, as we already knew. Apparently they were planning hits on several political targets, though Cowley's hushed up the names. The previous owner of the place didn't exactly die of natural causes… we authorised an exhumation. He was actually the first victim of the poisoning."

Bodie let out a low whistle, thinking that Henry and Dorothy, the kindly old couple, must have had a lucky escape in simply being chased out of their home instead of poisoned.

"We've been searching the house," Hogan continued, "the old man left the gamekeeper a fairly substantial sum of money, the cottage and part of the estate; the rest is going to family on the premise it's not sold… sounds as if the gamekeeper's done alright for himself."

"Good," Bodie murmured, "any news on Doyle?"

Hogan's expression turned grave.

"No change I'm afraid, mate," she replied, "still, at least it's not getting worse…"

Bodie nodded slowly, as Hogan excused herself and slipped out of the hospital.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Bodie eventually found himself outside Doyle's room. He pushed the door open and slipped inside, surveying the scene. It seemed little had changed since the early hours of morning; it was as if his friend hung in some sort of limbo. Bodie crept forwards silently, and stood over the bed. He watched, for a long moment, the steady rise and fall of Doyle's chest, his breathing regulated by the machinery. Careful not to jar the bed or touch any of the wires, Bodie pulled up a chair as close as he dared. He sat down, and glanced at the still form on the bed.

"I'm here, Ray," he said, aloud, "and I'm going to be right here when you wake up, okay?"

With that, Bodie reached into his jacket and pulled out a newspaper. Settling back into the chair, he began to read.

There was a steady stream of traffic through the small room as the hours blurred together in a haze of worry and boredom for Bodie. Several CI5 agents including Hogan, Webster, Murphy, Cookie and others came by to see for themselves that their fellow agents were still alive. Cowley called by to check on things; as the doctors and nurses buzzed around like insects, constantly checking the machinery and the readouts they showed. They made no comment on the results, although the doctor was continually, almost grudgingly, re-estimating Doyle's chances.

"Forty-five percent, I'd say," he'd commented, gruffly, "if he makes it through the night."

Through it all, Bodie was a permanent fixture at the bedside. Two of the nurses had already taken a shine to him and, when the ward sister wasn't looking, they would bring him mugs of tea, biscuits, and snacks. One of them appeared around dinner time.

"Me and some of the girls are nipping down to the chip shop," she chirped, "can I bring you something back?"

"Cod and chips please, love."

"You can't eat it in here," she warned him, "why not come with us?"

"I'll just stay here, thanks."

"Suit yourself."

She flashed Bodie a bright grin which he returned, and she was gone. Half an hour later, she reappeared with a wrapped bundle that she handed to Bodie, warning him on pain of death not to get caught with it. He thanked her and left the room long enough to bolt down the meal. He returned to find no change in Doyle's condition. Dr Connor was in the room checking charts; he eyed Bodie suspiciously but passed no comment as the agent sat back down and picked up his newspaper again. It was going to be a long wait, but Bodie was determined.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Night fell again on the hospital, and none of the staff could summon the nerve to ask Bodie to leave. He slept as best he could; as he was, sitting up in the chair by the bed. In the morning, he awoke to the gentle touch and the bright smile of a nurse who silently presented him with a mug of coffee and then tiptoed out of the room. Bodie yawned and stretched, joints clicking and cramped muscles protesting at the discomfort. Bodie was glad of the wake-up call; minutes later, Cowley strode into the room.

"Good morning, sir," Bodie said, cheerfully.

Cowley flashed him a dubious look, as if trying to work out whether Bodie had been there all night or had only just arrived. Bodie offered no clue.

"Doyle?" Cowley asked.

"No change," Bodie shook his head, "the doctors say his chances are improving, though. What about the manor house?"

"We're pulling out," Cowley replied, "We've taken everything we need. We'd already closed down their lab; they couldn't make any more of the poison. We've seized all their samples and the list of targets had been identified. We've got four people under protection while we attempt to track down any remaining agents but we've broken the back of the organisation – thanks to you and Doyle."

"And Henry, Dorothy and Scout," Bodie grinned, recalling their assistance, "any news…?"

"They've been moved back into their former home," Cowley replied, a rare smile touching his face, "somewhat better off than when they left, if I understand correctly. Their previous employer was both very wealthy and very generous. I'm sure they'll have a comfortable retirement."

"Good," Bodie nodded.

Cowley did not waste words, and withdrew shortly afterwards to speak to the doctors before returning to work. Without any orders to the contrary, Bodie continued his bedside vigil.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Midday came and went; Bodie fared well enough on hospital canteen food and the constant supply of tea from obliging nurses who were keen to share their chocolate biscuits as well. Dozing in his chair, Bodie was suddenly snapped awake. Wondering what had awoken him; his first instinct was to reach for his gun. Then he heard it again; a low groan, followed by a dry cough. Hardly daring to believe it, he sat up slowly and leaned forwards, smiling slightly. On the bed, Doyle stirred weakly, his hands going to the oxygen mask.

"Leave it alone, Sunshine," Bodie admonished him, taking his wrist and gently pulling his hands down from the mask, "you still need that. Welcome back to the land of the living."

Doyle could only offer his partner a puzzled look. However, any further comment was cut off as Dr Connor burst into the room, no doubt summoned by some silent alarm triggered by a change in his patient's readings. The doctor paused, stared open mouthed, and then summoned a nurse. Bodie smiled and settled back as the two medics set to work. Doyle had done it; he'd beaten the odds, and survived. He was going to be fine.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was more than a week later that Bodie was finally able to come and collect a decidedly stir-crazy Doyle from the hospital, as well as sealing a deal with two very attractive nurses for a night out as soon as possible. Bodie promised to drive Doyle home, but Doyle was frowning as they pulled out into traffic.

"But my place is that way…" he pointed.

"Not anymore, Sunshine," Bodie replied, keeping his eye on the road, "Cowley's had you moved. Your other place wasn't secure anymore after we got jumped there."

"Damn," Doyle slumped down in the seat, looking a little dejected, "and I waited ages to get a place with a garage for my bike…"

"Well I'm afraid this place was a little bit of a last minute arrangement," Bodie responded, turning away so that Doyle did not see the amusement on his face, "might not match up to your high standards…"

"Have you seen it? What's it like? Bodie!"

"I'm saying nothing," Bodie smirked, "you'll soon see."

Eventually, the Capri slewed into an underground car park. Doyle was not surprised to find his own Ford was already parked there – after all, Bodie had got his keys. Next to the Capri, a very familiar shape was covered by a grey tarpaulin.

"Did you bring that here?" Doyle asked, pointing at the bike.

"Don't worry, I was careful with it," Bodie replied, as he parked the car, "err… scratches do just polish out of the paintwork, don't they?"

Doyle drew in a breath and then caught the expression on his partner's face.

"Bodie, you berk!"

He aimed a mock punch, but missed as Bodie leapt out of the car and slammed the door. Doyle followed at a more sedate pace. The poison was gone from his system; and the secondary infection defeated by antibiotics, but he had been left feeling weak and washed out, and the ten day's leave granted to him by Cowley seemed to have been lost to the task of packing and unpacking his stuff into this new place. Bodie showed him into an elevator, and Doyle suppressed a sigh. He wondered if he could persuade Bodie to give him a hand… he was lost in silent musings as Bodie cheerfully led him up to the fourth floor of the apartment block, and opened the door on the right.

"After you; mate," Bodie gestured, with a grin.

Doyle braced himself, and stepped through. His intake of breath was the result of a very pleasant surprise. The apartment was light and airy; spacious, and tastefully furnished. And best of all…

"You moved my stuff?"

"Cowley's orders," Bodie shrugged, "had to ditch your old place in a bit of a hurry. Sorry."

"I bet he didn't order you to unpack it all," Doyle could not prevent the smile that spread across his face, "thanks, mate. It looks great."

"Yeah, well," Bodie sniffed, dismissively, "you can make it up to me… buy me a drink sometime, you know."

"Yeah," Doyle nodded, hands in his pockets as he admired his new flat, "you know, I could get used to this place…"

"Good. I'm starving. Your kitchen's that way," Bodie pointed.

"I haven't got any food…"

"It's in the 'fridge. I bought it – you cook it."

Doyle laughed, finding a box of eggs, milk, cheese and a variety of other fresh produce. He searched the cupboards, eventually locating his pans, plates and cutlery. Bodie stood back, leaning against the wall with his arms folded, watching the delight on his friend's face as he explored the new kitchen. Bodie knew, from first hand experience, that Doyle was a great cook… eventually; Doyle turned, and held up a frying pan.

"Spanish omelettes?" he offered.

"Now you're talking," Bodie rubbed his hands together, "and the perfect accompaniment…"

He reached down to the floor, selecting a bottle of red wine from Doyle's wine-rack, carefully transported over from his previous apartment. He set the table and poured the wine as the delicious smell began to waft from the kitchen. Soon enough, Doyle appeared bearing two plates, and Bodie grinned.

"I could get used to this," he quipped, "being waited on hand and foot…"

Doyle simply smirked as he set the plates down and took his seat.

"Fair exchange for moving my stuff," he shrugged, "thanks, mate."

"No worries," Bodie dismissed the thanks with a casual wave, as he picked up his wine glass, "here's to your new place. Cheers."

"Cheers," Doyle replied.

They raised their glasses in toast, and drank.

CI5's best were back in business.


End file.
